Blood and Whispers
by SarellaMartell
Summary: Two hundred years after Stannis Baratheon won the Iron Throne, the game begins anew. This is the narrative version of the events of an open ASOIAF RolePlay forum still in progress.
1. Chapter 1

**\- A PROLOGUE -**

Two hundred years after the events of A Song of Ice and Fire, Westeros seemed to enjoy relative peace. The alliances among the great houses of the seven kingdoms remained mostly true to how they were in antiquity: the Tyrells and Martells were still bitter towards each other, Hightower plotted in silence against their liege lords, House Harlaw dreamt of driftwood crowns, Starks and Lannisters gave each other a wide berth, and the Freys remained close with the Lions. Baelish ruled in the Riverlands, Arryn in the Vale, Lannister in the Westerlands, Greyjoy in the Iron Islands, Baratheon in the Stormlands and Crownlands, Martell in Dorne, and Stark in the North.

The Lord Commander and his black brothers at the Wall still fought to keep the White Walkers and the Wildlings at bay. The Golden Company still sought to return, although now from their stout keep on the isle of Bloodstone.

Though none opposed the King openly, the great houses were power hungry and scheming and plotting for a chance to get closer to the crown. The King, Harys Baratheon was a strong man, though naive and rash. He kept his friends close and frustrated his bannermen. Not one to turn down a fight, he was ready to turn to war at the first sign of a threat. In this turmoil, the King threw a feast to celebrate the beginning of the new year. Here like in times gone past, the high lords began their Game of Thrones anew.

**\- DAMON -**

The corridors of the Red Keep were awash in the glow of torchlight and the sounds of feasting echoed dimly off the cool stone walls.

The laughter, the merriment, the cheek kissing, it was all becoming as suffocating as the stifling humidity of King's Landing itself, and Damon Lannister could no longer abide it, nor could he continue to feign recognition of all the sigils and houses from the farthest, smallest corners of Westeros.

Who in Seven Hells would take a bee for their sigil? Was Honeyholt in the Reach or the Riverlands? He could not remember. _Perhaps I should have spent more time listening to Maester Jommo and less time making faces at my brother from across the table._ His footsteps were hardly heard over the distant melodies of a musician troupe, and he emerged into the gardens behind the Throne Room to the songs of a thousand crickets instead.

The crisp chill of night made him shiver despite the warmth from all the wine he'd drank. The air tasted like winter, dry and thin, even so far south as the capital, and Damon leaned heavily against one of the pillars of the colonnade to breath it in. The marble felt steadier than his legs.

"Have you had enough, then?" a man chuckled, and when Damon turned around he was met with eyes of a deep purple hue, set in the sharp features of an older man's face and framed by silver hair.

"Ser Ulrich," he said. "Forgive me for not greeting you sooner. I did not see you lurking in the shadows."

The knight's white armor glittered in the moonlight, and his cloak mirrored the glowing orb in the black sky. Dawn hung sheathed at the Kingsguard's hip, its milky blade concealed within an unornamented leather scabbard, and Damon glanced at it with the curiosity of a boy of ten and three, not twenty and three as he was.

Ulrich's smile was faint. "You did greet me earlier," he reminded him. "But that was several cups ago."

"Then forgive me doubly." Damon offered a mocking and wobbly bow. "All you White Cloaks look the same in the torchlight. Perhaps I thought I was speaking with Ser Jon or Ser Daeron."

"Mayhaps. I pray you can tell the King apart from the commoners, at least, lest your tongue land you into trouble even a Lannister couldn't pay his way out of."

"Nonsense." Damon shook his head and grinned despite his dizziness. "There is no problem that cannot be solved with gold." Ulrich did not seem to find the remark amusing, but Damon was used to men more humorless than the Sword of the Morning. "Your King already knows it," he went on, nodding to the great oak and iron doors at Ulrich's back that led into the Throne Room. "He spent quite a bit of coin to feast his kingdoms this night. Perhaps someone counseled the Stag that even the most ambitious men can be contented with a full stomach."

A dragonfly was buzzing loudly somewhere between the gillyflowers and sedge, and a white stone fountain trickled noisily. Ulrich looked unhappy. "And what about you and your ambition?" he asked. "Is Damon Lannister content with his Arbor Gold and his whores, and the promise of his father's seat?"

Damon's easy smile faltered at the insult, but only for a moment. "Unlike most men," he said when it returned, "I would be content with far less. Let my father keep his seat, and I will hold my wine and whores, though I prefer the sour grapes from your Kingdom over an Arbor Gold. I dare say the only thing finer than a Dornish red is a Dornish woman." The Lannister's green eyes fell to Dawn at the knight's hip. "There is no need to keep your hand on the pommel of your sword, Ser. Rather uncouth behavior for a feast, wouldn't you say?"

Ulrich seemed surprised to find his armored fingers clutching the hilt, and quickly released his grip, a slight flush creeping into his cheeks. The knight sighed. "Now it is I who must beg forgiveness of you, it seems," he conceded.

"I shall consider it." Damon glanced once more at the weapon before running a hand through tousled golden curls. He was swaying on his feet slightly, but felt the disappointing onset of sobriety creeping closer. _The Sword of the Mourning is a better title for this Dayne,_ he thought. _He is as merry as a Silent Sister. _

"We do share a brother now," Ulrich reminded him.

"Yes. Thaddius." Damon could scarcely forget that. His younger sibling was at the King's side somewhere within the pink stone walls of the keep, in the same embellished pale armor as Ulrich, an expression somewhere between boredom and misery on his boyish face. Damon hadn't the chance to speak to Thaddius yet, and it didn't seem likely as the feast dragged into its sixth hour.

"Is he doing well?" Damon asked, and this time it was Ulrich whose eyes flickered with hesitation.

"Fine," he answered, after a moment's pause. "Thaddius is a skilled swordsman."

"Some say the best."

"Aye, some say that." Ulrich's gaze wandered about the darkened gardens, avoiding Damon's. "He lacks discipline," the knight said, "but he is still young. That will change. I should return to the feast." Ulrich glanced over his shoulder at the door and then back at the teetering lordling. He managed a small smile. "It may be best if you retire for the night."

"Perhaps." Damon nodded. "I cannot stand to be in that room besides, not with that ugly iron seat within. Who would ever want to feast in the shadow of that monstrous thing? Who would ever want to _sit_ something so hideous?"

Ulrich shrugged. "A king," he suggested. His cape fluttered in the chilly night's breeze as the knight turned and when the moonlight caught it, for one brief moment the cloak looked almost as milky white as Dawn itself.

**\- RHAEGAR -**

Rhaegar Targaryen looked at his stunted dragon and shivered. "Could you at least give us a fire? No? Stupid lizard."

The beast only yawned in reply, then flapped his wings lazily and flew to the top of one of the towers of Castle Black, the shadow he cast over the snow covered bailey below no bigger than that of an eagle. "Take your dragon they said," Rhaegar muttered as he trudged through the white fluff towards the Shield Hall. "Keep you warm he will, won't be so bad."

Rhaegar shook his head, his mane of silver gold hair already freckled with freshly fallen snowflakes. "Stupid dragon. We could all be eating venison, but no, he'd rather roost on a tower and act like he's King in the North."

He pulled opened the old pine doors to the holdfast and the blast of warm air rosied his pale cheeks at once. The hall was worn and shabby, like most of Castle Black, but there was something to be said for the comfort of a fire, even if the benches that were propped around it were splintered and wormholed.

Rhaegar found a place beside his friend, and accepted the bowl of soup that Balon passed him without thanks. "It's cold," he announced, staring down into the stew with thinly veiled distaste.

"It's always cold at the Wall," Balon quipped cheerfully, breaking off a piece of his crusty bread and offering it to the Targaryen.

"No, the soup."

His friend dipped his own bread into the stew and sucked the broth from it noisily. "You can't tell it's gone stale if you put it in the soup," he explained, when Rhaegar frowned at his lack of table manners. _Though to his credit, we aren't even eating at a table. _The Targaryen sighed and brought the bowl to his lips tentatively.

_I will never grow accustomed to this,_ he thought bitterly. Even Sharp Point had hot food, though there were no cooks to prepare it, only himself and his cousins and uncle. Nothing was hot at Castle Black, not the food, not the baths, and certainly not the Wall itself.

"Have you had any luck getting Vellath to breathe fire?" Balon asked, his dark eyes alight with interest. The Stormlander, like most of the younger boys on the Wall, was enthralled by Rhaegar's pet, as Lord Commander Hoster called it with begrudging affection.

Rhaegar snorted. "No," he conceded. "The dragon is worthless. Why do you think King Harys let me keep him when he sent me here?" Balon only shrugged. "You _can _think, can't you?" Rhaegar asked, and at that his friend chuckled.

"I think you're letting the snow get to you," he said with a grin. "The Wall isn't so bad, you know. We're as much protectors of the realm as the King is, perhaps even more so. We defend the world of men against the evils of-"

"Snarks, grumpkins, giants..." Rhaegar interrupted with a roll of his eyes. "It's easy for you to wax on about the honor in wearing the black, Balon, since you _chose_ to don your cloak. Though I don't see how being a steward makes you a protector of anything other than ledgers and cold stews."

Balon shrugged. "Not all of us are cut out to be Rangers like you, Ray."

"I'm not a Ranger _yet,_" Rhaegar pointed out, then grumbled, "Though I'm sure it is a mere matter of formality, and not for lack of worthiness. How many men at Castle Black have both a dragon _and_ Dragon's blood? How many men here come from a line of Kings and conquerors?"

Balon turned back to his stew and turned a turnip over with his spoon to check for mold before eating. "My mother was a server in a tavern and my father a cook," he said between bites. "I suppose the Steward's order is where I belong. You won't hear me complaining. I'd sooner tend a warm fire than go ranging out beyond the Wall where the frost is just as like to kill you as any lurking creature of the night."

Rhaegar raised his eyebrows in quiet disbelief, and shook his head. "And therein lies the difference between those of noble birth and those of common parentage. You may be content with your scrolls and your cook pots and your coin counting, but me..." He trailed off, staring into the flames of the fire they sat before. "I have the blood of Dragons."

**\- MELLARA -**

Maude brushed her hair until the tresses that fell in long golden brown waves about her shoulders were shining, like a field of wheat at sunset. Mellara's hair looked like a field of wheat in a hurricane.

"Are you finished yet, Maude?" she asked, bored. The youngest Tyrell was seated on the floor, picking at a thread hanging from the hem of her moss green gown.

"Hush, little one." Maude smiled, turning over her shoulder to stick her tongue out at her little sister. "You cannot rush perfection."

Mellara grinned. "You're already perfect, Maude, everyone knows it," she said, tugging at the string on her dress and absentmindedly watching it slowly unravel the lace fringe. "The King certainly seems to know it."

She was caught off guard by the pillow Maude threw, and yelped when it hit her in the head, messing up her already tangled hair.

"Don't pull at your dress, dear sister," Maude scolded gently. "Our lord father wants us to look our best at court today."

"He wants _you_ to look your best," Mellara corrected her. "After all, it's _you_ King Harys has his eye on."

"He doesn't have his eyes anywhere they don't belong," Maude replied, shooting her sister a mocking glare, "So mind your wagging tongue when people ask you about us. The King simply enjoys my company is all." She shrugged and smiled bashfully. "And I enjoy his as well."

The two sisters entered the throne room together, with Mellara trailing behind her older sister. They took their places in the back of the vast chambers with the other women, and Mellara began craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the proceedings, something which Maude raised her eyebrow at.

"Please try to be ladylike," she told her.

"Shh!" Mellara snapped, "I can almost see the King!"

King Harys sat on the throne beneath the great windowed dome. His brown eyes were always warm to his friends, but they looked bored and disinterested now. He was dressed in a deep green doublet and the black leather of his boots had been polished to a regal shine. A crown of gold fashioned to look like antlers sat atop his head, stretching up towards the ceiling where rays of winter light shone down and reflected off the iron barbs of his seat.

A booming voice was echoing in the chambers, and Mellara stood on tip toe to try and find its source.

"My lords, Your Grace! This has gone on long enough. Aeron Greyjoy is a traitor to the realm, and should pay for his crimes. If not for his heinous offenses towards Lord Vypren, then for his orchestration of raiding parties sent to Seagard. It took all of the Frey and Mallister forces combined to ward off the ironborn, but we took prisoners, and have information that implicates Lord Aeron as the man behind all of this reaving and raping."

Mellara caught a glimpse of the speaker. He was a strange looking man, with shoulder length dark hair but eyes as green as a Lannister. "Who's that?" she whispered, tugging on Maude's arm.

"Lord Randyll Frey," Maude whispered back, keeping her gaze fixed on the court and a pretty smile on her face. Mellara shifted uncomfortably. There was something rather disconcerting about the man's presence.

"Should he be allowed to go unpunished, I fear for the safety of the Trident and the Green Fork!" he was saying. "I would suggest his sons be taken hostage, but it seems the boy is too green to father children, so I say take his ships, Your Grace! Their house plagued your father and now they seek to rise against you, as well. Weaken the Iron Fleet and we shan't see anything of this like happening again."

He stopped to think for a moment, his eyes burning with contemplation, before continuing airily, "Not to mention, the Lords Mallister, Vypren and myself may well require a certain amount of gold to compensate for the brave men and resources we lost tackling the Greyjoy menace..."

The King regarded the Lord Frey warily before replying, tapping a ringed finger against the arm of the Iron Throne, "How much do you seek, my Lord?"

"Ten-thousand dragons should suffice for each of us, your Grace, if your Master of Coin can find room for it," he stated boldly.

"Of course," the King consented, nodding to his Master of Coin, "Lord Baelor, see to it that the lords see their coin."

Before Baelor Pyke could draw his quill, another voice interrupted. A man with flaming red hair and tattoos on his arms spoke. "Your Grace," he said, "If I might be so bold, the Lord of Frey has just raided you worse in a few sentences than Greyjoy did with all of these reavings together. A few soldiers and the food to feed them does not warrant ten-thousand dragons."

Randyll Frey turned, and with a sly smile replied, "Lord Connington, if the crown is unable to provide this money, why not give the ships from the Iron Fleet to us instead? The Riverlands would be the safest they've ever been."

Mellara's eyes darted between the two men. She reached over and grabbed Maude's shoulder, trying to pull herself up for a better view. "Stop that!" Maude hissed, swatting her away. "Can you please try to behave yourself? For me?" Mellara just rolled her eyes.

"Your Grace, may I suggest you let this matter sit for now," a new voice said. Its owner was as a lean man, clad in dark colors and thick fur with dark hair and a clean shaven face. He had a direwolf clasp pinning his grey cloak about his shoulders and Mellara figured him to be Lord Edmure Stark of Winterfell.

"Both parties seem to be missing and this talk of war makes lords bold and has the ladies fearful. Lord Frey seems to be far more interested in the warships than gold dragons. The lion in his blood causes me to question his ambitions... Should we be so quick to provoke the Iron Islanders?"

"Does lion blood frighten you, Stark?"

Mellara elbowed her way through two ladies in front of her and caught a glimpse of a handsome golden haired man before she felt Maude's hand on the back of her gown, yanking her back to her place.

_A Lannister,_ she thought. Even if his yellow hair and emerald eyes didn't give him away, she could guess his house by the way he was looking disdainfully at the Stark lord, making no effort to conceal his contempt.

"Of course, only a dog would run from a fight with his tail between his legs," he was saying, "and that _is_ what you have on your sigil, is it not? A dog?" The blonde man turned to face the King, and added, "Your Grace is also undoubtedly aware that House Lannister and House Greyjoy are united by marriage. My lady mother, wife to the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, was a Greyjoy. Given that our houses are aligned, it seems fitting that if Aeron is removed he should be replaced by a Lannister."

"As you well remember, Your Grace," a new voice chimed in, "you and I dealt with this Greyjoy menace in the past. By allowing the house to maintain Lordship over one of the Seven Kingdoms, we are making a grave mistake. Should your Lordship deem my service to the realm worthy of a seventh of your kingdom, I would gratefully accept the Iron Islands."

Mellara fidgeted impatiently. She couldn't see anything from the back of the throne room. "Why do the women have to stand back here?" she whined to Maude, who shot her a silencing glare. "I can't see anything."

"You don't _need_ to see anything, Mellara," Maude responded. "You're supposed to stand there and look pretty. Here, put your hands like this." She nodded at her own hands, which were folded neatly and resting against her perfectly smoothed skirts.

Mellara's skirts were already wrinkled. She scrunched up her nose at her sister. "I do need to see. I can't tell who's talking just by their voice, Maude."

"That's Durran Harlaw," Maude whispered. Mellara frowned in confusion and Maude rolled her eyes. "They call him 'the Reaper." He was the one who killed Lord Damron Greyjoy in the second Greyjoy Rebellion. He's speaking to Damon Lannister." Mellara stood on the tips of her toes, peeking over the shoulders of the women in front of her. "You're too little to know what they say about_ him," _Maude said.

"Lord Durran." Damon bowed his head in greeting, but looked up at the Lord of Harlaw with a somewhat confused frown. "No one amongst us would deny your prowess in battle, nor the strength of your fleet or house. But as you and I both know, the Greyjoys have ruled the Iron Islands since Aegon the First's conquest. There have been no other lines. Pyke won't accept rule from anyone other than a Greyjoy."

"I am grateful for your flattery, Damon." Durran returned the bow, "House Hoare ruled in the beginning, Pyke will accept rule of another house close to it. However fear not, young Lannister, I would not seek to tear down your kin as the rulers of Pyke. I wish simply to institute the Ten Towers as the new capital of the Iron Islands."

The Lannister stiffened, "After Aegon I extinguished House Hoare, he allowed the ironborn to _choose_ who would have primacy over them. They _chose_ Vickon Greyjoy. The Greyjoys have ruled ever since. What you are suggesting is an appeal to a fondness for a house that is centuries extinct. However that is an... interesting proposal, my lord."

"My lord, I am not blind to your lineage," Durran replied, "but a madman such as Aeron cannot be allowed to rule a kingdom. Your continued opposition over the rule of House Harlaw, a house_ loyal _to the King, is surprising and interesting. Perhaps the future lord wishes to inherit _two _kingdoms when his father passes?"

Damon smiled innocently. "Lord Duran, my thoughts are only of my kin. I wish to resolve this conflict with as little bloodshed as possible. Simply replacing my cousin with a family member more friendly to the realm seems to be the most logical course of action."

Mellara tugged at her sister's arm again. "Are the Lannisters and Harlaws unfriendly?" she asked inquisitively. "I thought that the Lannisters were allied with the Iron Islands."

Maude shook her head. "They're allied with the Greyjoys," she corrected her sister under her breath. "Loren Lannister married one right after the rebellion - the dead Lord Greyjoy's sister." The youngest Tyrell frowned, but before she could whisper any more questions, a loud guffaw from the Lord Stark drew her attention.

"Durran would be a most excellent replacement!" Edmure said, his arms crossed over his chest. "You, on the other hand, seem to only be only capable of handling a jug of wine and a whore! Tell me, Damon, how does a greenboy who hasn't seen the battlefield rule the Iron Islands?"

Damon turned to glower at Lord Stark. "I am not proposing that_ I_ rule the Iron Islands, Stark, I am proposing that a _Greyjoy_ rule them, as a Greyjoy always has. If we replaced every incompetent Lord with someone of a different house, the Starks would have gone extinct centuries ago."

"Let Harlaw himself strike down the last Greyjoy! No one would be more fit a man to rule the Iron Islands than the one that stands before you. If not Lord of the Iron Islands then Lord Paramount could suffice till a proper heir comes of age! Killing boys seems to be a cruel specialty of House Lannister, but you have no claws yet lion, so I suggest you hold your tongue till then!"

Damon clenched his teeth, shooting daggers at Lord Stark. He gave an accusatory nod to the skinning knife at Stark's hip and said quietly, "Don't speak to me about cruelty."

Defeated, he turned on his heel and stormed off, the crowd parting to allow him to pass. Mellara scrambled to get a better view of him as he went, but the throne room was too crowded and all she saw was a flash of crimson and the glittering of an emerald pendant likely worth more than every jewel in her mother's vanity drawer.

Bystanders were shooting uneasy glances at the blade at Lord Stark's waist and shifting uncomfortably. Mellara looked to her sister and Maude glanced about the room before explaining quietly, "Lord Stark is rumored to practice flaying."

It was the girls' own father who spoke next. Lord Baelor was shaking his head. "Your Grace, these other lords speak of brash military action in response to mere rumors. I would urge caution and prudence. We should not fall headlong into the haste of warmongering."

Mellara glanced up at her sister. Maude was watching the King with a dreamy look on her face, and the youngest Rose rolled her eyes again. The King looked dreamy as well - he seemed as though he might fall asleep on the throne.

"Lord Baelor is right." A man at the foot of the great seat spoke. This one Mellara knew, as she knew all the members of the small council. He was Aemon Estermont, and he held the position of Master of Ships.

"Your Grace," he said, "these lords are not war hungry, they are power hungry. They talk of dividing and taking Greyjoy lands and fleets as if stopping these so called 'raids' had amounted to stopping another rebellion."

King Harys nodded, speaking at last. He seemed to have awoken from a daydream at the sound of Lord Estermont's voice, and shifted in his seat on the throne. "I agree, my lord," he replied loudly, though he did not seem certain of what it was he was consenting to.

"You are their king," Aemon said to the man on the Iron Throne, "Your word is law, and any dissent is rebellion in itself."

Harys nodded again, and scratched at his beard. His younger brother Joseph looked up at the King with a slight frown and cleared his throat. "Brother, what is your final ruling on this matter?"

"We shall do as Lord Baelor proposed. Now, if that is all, I would like to adjourn this session." He stood up before anyone could protest, and Mellara noted the flicker of annoyance that crossed Lord Aemon's face.

The crowd broke out into a loud murmuring, as various lords and ladies began discussing the many championed proposals and speculating about the different motives of those involved. Mellara took off at once, narrowly escaping Maude's hands as the older girl tried to pull her sister back again.

She wove her way through the throngs of lords and ladies, hoping to eavesdrop on some tantalizing conversation, and her heart thumped faster in her chest when she caught sight of Gylen Hightower, Lord of Oldtown, speaking with a much older man garbed in orange, a black beard shot with white upon his aging face. The stranger's skin was the color of a walnut shell with a small and unostentatious diadem crossing his forehead.

"Prince Aryyn," Gylen greeted him, "What an exciting day at court," he nodded in the direction of the King, who was speaking closely with Maude as he made his way to the exit, Mellara forgotten completely. She was laughing as he led her by the arm. "So the Stag is smitten with the Rose, it's quite understandable."

Gylen sighed. "We can both agree that having a Tyrell on the throne is unacceptable. I know that you have a daughter of a marrying age. Surely your Sarella would be a much better fit as mother to the King's Dornish son than any Rose."

Mellara tucked a strand of straggly brown hair behind her ear she managed to move herself closer to the lords as they spoke.

"You're an intelligent one, Lord Gylen," the Prince replied. "The Tyrells know that their daughters are some of the most beautiful maidens in all of Westeros. A King deserves a comely queen, Lord Gylen, so does every unmarried man in Westeros. Wouldn't you agree, Lady Mellara?"

Mellara was caught off guard at being addressed, but quickly put on the sweet smile Maude always wore. "Of course, my lord," she answered. "That is something every man deserves."

Gylen spun around, his face flushed. "Lady Mellara!" He bowed. "I didn't see you there. How are you enjoying the trial?" He gave a quick, gracious glance at the Prince. "Excuse me for leaving you, I have some business to attend to. Good day, my lady." He turned to face Aryyn and bowed again. "Think about what I've said, Prince Aryyn."

Mellara eyed Gylen distrustfully as he left. She glanced at the Prince. "My lord, was there a problem?"

"Lord Gylen was asking my opinion on who among the maidens in Westeros is most likely to sit next to King Harys as his queen. He mentioned your sister, Maude. I'm like to agree. She is a beautiful young girl."

"That's what everyone says," Mellara replied, eyeing the Prince warily. "But what do you think?"

Prince Aryyn smiled down her warmly. "Sweet child," he said, "some things last forever. Steel may lose its edge, rocks may turn to sand, and even the mighty stag eventually falls, but the sun is always there. And roses? Well, my dear girl... roses wilt."

The smile never left his face as the Prince bowed his head and left.

**\- AEMON -**

"A storm's coming my Lord."

"Then be thankful we've almost made Greenstone." Lord Aemon Estermont stood firm on the deck of Ocean's Gift, glancing to the East he took note of the darkening clouds. Three days out from his visit to King's Landing, the Lord's fleet was finally sailing through Cape Wrath. Soon he'd be home to castle Greenstone.

Lord Aemon's dreams of late had left him restless. A shadowy figure with a bleeding face, his three fingered hands reaching like claws, swallowing Aemon in icy blackness. A bad omen. Aemon shook himself free of his thoughts, best not to dwell on such childish things. Still, he would be grateful once they'd reached harbor.

To the west, waves crashed against the rocky shores of the Rainwood. The dark forest stretched off into the distance, the snarled ancient woodland growing thick with underbrush.

A shout came from the crow's nest. "My lord, shipwreck on the coastline!" Lord Aemon peered along the shoreline and spotted it quickly. It wasn't uncommon to find the remains of drowned ships dragged onto the coast by Cape Wrath's strong current; the Eastern stretch was perilous to the inexperienced sailor. "Looks like a tradeship my lord, recently wrecked." Aemon glanced once more out to sea, the storm was rapidly approaching. "Drop anchor, and make it quick, or we'll have this storm nipping at our heels."

Four longboats landed to the North of the drowned ship on a rocky outcrop. The main mast had snapped with the ship's collision, leaving jagged splinters of wood strewn about the wreck. Its mainsail hung like some great drowned beast, the wind whipping its weary form back and forth. The worst damage was the bow, where the merchant ship had crashed violently into the rocky shore; a gaping hole, half the width of the ship itself.

"Search the ship, take anything of value." Lord Aemon's eyes were drawn to several trails of footprints leading away from the ship, "And watch for survivors."

It wasn't long until a shaken man-at-arms returned, "My lord… I think you need to see this."

Stepping into the bowels of the ship Lord Aemon was hit with a familiar scent, blood, the air was thick with the smell. "What happened here?"

"Some kind of struggle my lord", came the reply, "there are markings of battle throughout the ship, but no bodies." He hesitated. "Well, there is one…" As they rounded the next corner a grinding noise was heard, and the ship groaned. "The men don't know what to make of it…" Lord Greenstone was ushered into what seemed to be a makeshift prison, rope and twine which had been used to tie the door shut lay on the floor, snapped apart. It was there he saw it, a single man, chained to the wall by his arms. Beside him lay two similar shackles, broken open and hanging useless. The man was rhythmically pulling on his chains, each time ushering a low moan from the broken ship. But the man's most noticeable feature were his eyes; each a deep glowing blue.

Lord Aemon stepped back. "May the seven protect us…" The wind had reached a fever pitch outside; the storm was nearly upon them.

"Burn the ship."

**\- SARELLA -**

Inside the Red Keep, the sound of Sarella Martell's sandals softly padding the stone floors echoed in the hallway, but no one seemed to hear it over the music and laughter coming from within one of the castle rooms. She pressed her ear to the door curiously, but was unable to distinguish any words from the light chatter of voices. It was her last night in King's Landing before departing for Dorne.

_Just another feast._

She continued on until she spied a door leading out onto a balcony. A light breeze was blowing the sheer curtains back into the hallway and she could see a slice of the black night sky without, dotted with twinkling stars.

She didn't notice Ser Dayne until she stepped out onto the balcony. He was standing alone, leaning against the rail, armor glistening in the moonlight, his long white cloak billowing out softly behind him which every small breeze. Surprised, she tugged at the thin straps of her traditional Dornish gown as she approached.

"Ser Dayne." She greeted him with a small nod, neglecting to curtsy as she had seen the Tyrell ladies do so often. "I hope I am not disturbing you."

He seemed pleased to see her when he turned around. "Ah, Sarella, my lady. It has been what, two years? We danced at your father's feast."

"We did indeed." Sarella smiled. _How could I forget?_ "I was ten and four. Two years doesn't sound like a long time, but it feels like ages. Is the King feasting?" She nodded her head in the direction of the music.

"As usual. I've just come up here to clear my thoughts. I get terrible headaches at his feasts, but a good bath in the light of the stars and fresh air seems to do the trick."

"It seems that all these lords and ladies do in King's Landing is feast, feast, feast." She cocked her head and looked at the knight with a sparkle in her eye. "It's a wonder they can still fit in their thrones. I find the night air cures any troubled thoughts of my own as well, but the air in King's Landing is too cold for my Dornish blood. See?" She held up her arm to show her goosebumps.

Ulrich chuckled. "You get used to both the cold and the feasting, I assure you. What's troubling you, my lady?"

Sarella looked out across the King's Landing. Her father warned her that the Martells had many enemies about, especially at King's Landing._ But knights are the most honorable of all men, and the Sword of the Morning is the most honorable of all knights_. She leaned her elbows against the balcony rail and lowered her slender arms to the cold stone, letting her hands dangle off the rail.

"My father is sick," she confessed, brushing away a loose strand of dark hair that had escaped her long braid. "If he... If something were to happen to him... I left the Water Gardens only two years past. I am not ready to rule. I know nothing about war or politics or anything of the sort."

Ulrich looked over at her with a bemused smile on his face. "War is all I know. Politics. As the King's glorified doorman, I watch every day and it is pointless. Be honorable, be beautiful, and don't let others manipulate you. Don't try to play the game, fair Princess, because those who do are often left in the dirt." He took her hand, kissed it, and returned to the stars. Her heart fluttered in her chest.

"You are kind to be concerned for me, Ser Dayne." Sarella thought she detected a trace of sadness in his words_. I wonder if he misses Dorne, its blazing hot sun, the dry desert air, his family in Starfall... _"A doorman, you say." She moved closer to the Dornish knight, her bare arm brushing against his armor. Her face was clouded in worry, but her dark eyes were alight with curiosity.

"You truly don't see yourself as the hero people know you to be?" she asked, leaning in. "You are a knight of the Kingsguard. You are a defender of the defenseless. The shield of the righteous." Her voice became more hushed with every sentence, as she stared intently into his violet eyes. "You wield a blade forged from the heart of a falling star. _You are the Sword of the Morning."_

"But I am empty, my princess. There is a void within my bones. I am sworn to take no wife, and father no children. When I leave this world for the next, I will leave nothing behind."

Sarella lifted her hand to brush his silver hair form his face and her gold bracelets slid down her slender bronze arm. "Is that the void, Ser Ulrich? The place in your heart where a woman should be?"

"I swore a vow," he said. "And I am nothing if not a man of honor."

She stepped closer until their bodies were mere inches apart. Sarella rested a delicate hand on his breastplate and smiled softly. "A wife is not the same as a woman."

"You are young, my princess, and the heir to Dorne no less. You have obligations to marry someone suitable and..." He wavered for a moment before sighing. "And by the Seven, you are beautiful."

Sarella grinned, looking into the knight's deep violet eyes. The balcony, the noise from the feast, the distant clamor of King's Landing below her, all of it seemed to fade away. It was just her and Ser Ulrich Dayne, dressed in his white cloak and armor, staring down at his Dornish princess. She slipped a hand behind his head and pulled his mouth to hers, kissing him as though her very life depended on it.

He pulled away after a long moment. "We shouldn't be doing this. I am a man of honor."

She looked up at the knight, a playful glint in her dark eyes. "You are a man," she corrected him. As if to remind him, she took his rough and callused hands in her own and pressed them against her breasts. Her Dornish gown was a rusted orange, nearly sheer, and draped loosely across her lithe frame. She moved his hands along the curves of her body, down her sides, onto her waist, and kissed him once more.

**\- THE HIGHTOWER -**

"Are you paying attention?" Gylen glared down at his son Gerold, who he had just caught sneaking a glance out the tower window, where doubtless far more exciting things were taking place than a father's lecture.

The Lord of Hightower was trying to teach his son the finer points of ruling, but Gerold's attention span was waning. At ten and eight, his son was no longer a child. _And if he is to one day rule over Oldtown, he will need to concentrate on these important lessons, just as I did._

They were a Hightower tradition that began generations ago. Gylen himself could easily recall sitting in the exact same seat that Gerold now sat in, listening to his father drone on. In fact, when he closed his eyes, he could even hear his voice, and the voices of his now dead brothers in the training yard drifting in through that same open window...

"Again. Defense is your best offense. Watch your back," Master-at-Arms Costayne repeated. Young Garth Hightower was surrounded by three of Oldtown's city watch, all of them adorned in light armor and equipped with wooden swords. Costayne was making use of the late morning sun to drill Garth and Gavyn while the shadow of the Hightower above them was not casting the courtyard in shade.

Garth was sweating under his white clothes, he had been training for an hour straight at this point. He was good, and it was evident his father's focus on his fighting ability had been well received by the muscular boy of 6 and ten. Gavyn stood by the side watching, his foot stamping repeatedly in anticipation. He was more slender, but still well trained. A military commander would have to fight as well.

The first guard came at Garth with a strong jab. The boy spun out of the way of the blade towards his attacker, ending up behind him. He poked the guard in the back with his sword. "Flowers, out!" Costayne yelled. The other two came at Garth. Garth parried the first strike cleanly, then the second. The two attacked at once, and Garth dodged one sword, but the other smacked the boy in the wrist. "Garth, you're out."

"But he only got my hand! That's not a ki-"

"In a battlefield it is. Losing a sword hand on the field is the worst way to go. You'll feel the pain before your enemy eventually drives his sword into your neck, if he's feeling merciful, and believe me, the enemies you will face when you're older will not be merciful to you," Ser Costayne lectured.

"House Rowan," a stern voice commanded suddenly.

Gavyn eagerly replaced his brother on the training grounds. Young Garth was already sporting an ugly purple bruise.

"House Rowan," the voice repeated.

Gylen sighed out the window as he watched his brothers fight. He had no scars, no bruises, hardly a cut. He wished he was out there with them not stuck in here with-

"House Rowan! Are you deaf?" Lord Garth Hightower snapped his fingers at his youngest son. Gylen jolted in his chair and blushed suddenly.

"S-sorry father. Golden tree on field of silver. Goldengrove. Lord Svenwood. U-untrustworthy." The last answer was always the same.

Old Garth glared at him, and glanced out the window at his other sons. "You're distracted. Why?"

Gylen rocked in his seat uncomfortably. He didn't like when his father asked him questions like this. He much preferred the testing questions, he was good at those. "I... I don't know. I-I might just be tired sitting here... learning..." He cringed in anticipation of his father's response.

"Tired of learning? Is that it? Well, why don't you go outside then. Play with the others," Garth said, leaning back in his seat. Gylen's eyes lit up, but he hesitated to stand. Garth sat and watched him. The boy of ten rose, but as soon as he did his father shot up as well.

"Yes, go outside. Go and play with your brothers. That's all they're doing, right? Playing. This all a game to you, and you're just getting punished because you're not old enough, is that right?" Garth's angered eyes stared into Gylen's.

"N-no..." Gylen replied, adverting his gaze now.

"No? Then why don't you understand, Gylen? Why don't you understand what I'm doing for you? Why don't you understand that this is your role in your family's victory? Do you not appreciate this? When your brothers take to the field of battle, you will be the one behind them planning it all. When they die, you will survive, is that not a gift? Is life not a good enough gift for you, Gylen? Have I raised you to be that spoiled?"

Tears welled up in Gylen's brown eyes. "I-I don't know."

"You don't know? You don't know! What have I done wrong, have I chosen the wrong son to give my love to? Maybe Garth or Gavyn would appreciate this more, perhaps they value their life more than you do yours. Have I made a mistake, Gylen?"

"N-no, father."

"Good!" Garth planted his hands on the table, his eyes wide. "Now will you sit, and do your family, me, and yourself a favor and pay attention? Son, I do this because I love you the most, don't you see? I knew from the start you were the one, you would bring our family to victory."

Gylen sits down and sniffles a couple times. "Really?" His father always had the answers. He glanced out the window one last time, watching Garth, back on the court, lose the practice fight to a guard prodding him in the back. Suddenly the shutters were snapped closed by Garth.

"Yes. I do this because I love you, and this family. Your House needs you. I need you. And now I need you to tell me the answers for House Dayne."

Gylen regained his composure, still looking down at his feet uncomfortably. "White sword crossed with falling star against purple. Starfall. Lord Arthur Dayne. Untrustworthy."

"Good. House Baratheon."

"Crowned stag against yellow. Storms End, Dragonstone, and the Red Keep. Lord Trystane Baratheon. Untrustworthy."

"Good... House Tyrell."

"Golden rose against green. Highgarden. Lord Luthor Tyrell," Gylen knew this answer better than any other, and his own son knew now as well, as Gerold's voice answered the question.

"Untrustworthy."

**\- THE LORD OF THE CROSSING -**

The book in Randyll's lap was a tome.

Countless worn pages sat nestled between cracked leather bindings, all filled with names and dates written in an almost illegible scrawl.

_...Lord Simon Baelish, died of a sudden chill during the Great Winter Frost of 403 AL… _

The text read as a cautionary tale. Deaths knocked on deaths as rulers and sons alike told the grisly tale of the castle with their tombstones. Randyll closed the cracked leather cover and glanced once more at the title: _Histories and Rulers of Harrenhal._

_Even the title is dull,_ he thought to himself, replacing the tome upon the table. He had sent his squire Orson to retrieve the dusty old text from amongst the many other dusty old texts stored in the Red Keep, but he had hoped for something more _substantial_ to fill the time until his departure. It had been nigh over a month since he had seen Belandra and the children, and the days seemed to inch by slower than the murky banks of the Green Fork beneath the Twins.

A knock on the oak chamber door drew Randyll away from thoughts of home, and he stood as a muffled voice called out tentatively.

"Lord Frey? Are you decent?"

"A moment please," he called back, stepping out from behind the table.

The fading light of the day cast a golden glow on the room, and Randyll's shadow stretched out before him as he stepped towards the door. He opened it slightly and peered outside, smiling and opening the door fully when he recognized his cousin's son, Damon Lannister.

"Damon! What brings you to my door at this hour?"

The man, who Randyll referred to fondly as "nephew," seemed frazzled. He ran his fingers through his thick blond curls and offered a grim smile.

"I apologize if I am disturbing you, uncle. I'm afraid I was... distracted... at the feast and did not get the chance to speak with you. Do you have a minute? I'd like to talk with you about the matter addressed at the King's court." Damon glanced down the hallway, then nodded to Lord Frey's chambers. "May I come in?"

"Of course, Damon. Come in."

Randyll had always been fond of Damon. In truth, he liked to think of Damon as his son, though he was closer to the boy's age than the boy's father's. Their two houses had been wound close by marriage, and Randyll had been raised at Casterly Rock alongside the budding lion brothers, Tyrius and Loren. Tyrius was dead now though, brought down by an axe during the Battle of Pyke. But Loren was as close as a brother to Randyll, and his children were like Randyll's own.

"Please, take a seat." Randyll said, gesturing to the two chairs before crossing the room to draw the curtains shut. "So this is about the Greyjoy's, eh?" he continued, pouring a glass of Arbor gold. "The King has agreed to weaken the Iron Fleet, and I was close to being ten thousand gold dragons richer from the agreement, not that I did anything to deserve it. Mind you, us Freys need not deserve anything, we just take our toll." Randyll chuckled, grinning at Damon who accepted the cup of wine with a smile. "However, I take it you feel more needs to be done. What is the matter?" He sat alongside his nephew and leaned in close, his emerald eyes glimmering in the candlelight.

Damon drank deeply from the cup before responding, and managed a smile afterwards, though his eyes looked tired.

"Well you were kind enough to present His Grace with options, I noted. Ten thousand gold dragons or a sizeable chunk of the iron fleet. I'm honestly not sure which would have been the better toll. Orys Connington remarked that you pillaged the king more with a few sentences than the Greyjoys did with their raiders." He looked briefly at his hands before gazing up at Randyll with the fierce green eyes of a Lannister.

"The Lord of Harlaw is intent on securing the Iron Islands for himself. He's a native ironborn, with the wealth of Harlaw behind him, not to mention the King's favor. If it weren't for him, I'd think the odds were good of replacing Aeron with my sister, Ashara. She could marry Dagon." His gaze had dropped back down to his cup as he spoke, but he looked up suddenly. "I'm worried that the Lord of Harlaw will do something stupid."

Randyll took a moment to digest the information, then nodded and said, "I agree. The ironborn cannot be trusted, whether they are Greyjoy or Harlaw or Codd. Each and every one of their men are nothing more than reavers, and they're certainly not fit to rule their own kingdom. A Lannister would be perfect for the job, especially one with knowledge of the islands, but your sister?"

He poured himself a cup of wine and refilled Damon's glass before handing the chalice back to the lordling. "Why place your sister on the Seastone Chair, when we have you? Lord Damon Lannister, Lord of Pyke and the Iron Islands!" Randyll raised his glass in a toast.

Damon hesitated, but raised his cup politely and took a long drink of wine.

"Truthfully, uncle," he said, setting the cup down, "I care little to sit on some seaweed throne on one of those craggy, bleak islands, even if it were Harlaw itself, which everyone knows to be the better island. Especially since I would likely have to marry my cousin to keep it. Gwin is..." He paused, and stared down at his wine, thinking for a moment before finishing, "Willful."

"You are more fit for a throne than you know, my boy," Randyll said warmly, "You may not see it yet, but I do."

"Kind words, uncle, but my lord father scarcely sees me fit to rule Casterly Rock," Damon responded glumly. It was true, Randyll knew. Loren was a hard man, and harder still on his children. As his eldest son, Damon received the brunt of his displeasure, and Damon's many vices did little to change that. "I just wish…" Damon seemed about to say something, but he shook his head and continued anew, "I just wish I knew that Lord Durran could be trusted, but he's not family, and can anyone outside of family truly be trusted?"

"No man can truly be trusted Damon. We all hold our secrets."

In his mind's eye he could see the Twin's laid out before him. The tower had been so high that the men below had seemed large as gnats. _Bend the knee to your liege lord! He_ had called down, and the Tully had done so.

"I'd wager even your lord father holds some."

Damon seemed doubtful.

"My lord father is as hard as Casterly Rock itself and colder than the Wall, but he has always been forthcoming. He has never once shied away from pointing out my shortcomings." The young lordling brought his glass to his lips, only to find the cup empty. "_Family is everything_, he tells me, yet I find more warmth in this cup than in him."

"He was never a warm man, your father," Randyll replied, taking a drink from his own glass. "But he was warmer before your mother's death."

"And afterwards you would have thought it was he who was sent off to the Iron Isles to ward under _Alannys Greyjoy_." Damon spat the name out. "He shares her mirth, in that he has none." Damon's brow furrowed, but after a moment he smiled. "Thaddius once called her All grey No joy. He could not sit for a week."

Randyll had meant to speak with Thaddius before his departure, but the youngest Lannister son was the King's white shadow, and Randyll never had the chance. "All the better for it," Randyll said, refilling both their glasses. "A man should learn to hold his tongue at times, especially in the presence of kings."

"Seems as though King Harys would prefer a kingsguard of mutes." Damon swirled the dark red liquid in his glass thoughtfully. "Thaddius looked bored half to death standing there in that white cloak. It looked to be choking the life out of him."

Randyll could not help but agree. The youngest Lannister son had always been a willful boy, and never happier than when he had a sword in his hands. A life of servitude seemed ill-fitted to the man, yet on his seventeenth nameday he had donned the white cloak and taken the vows. Loren's work, Randyll was almost certain of it. _Hard as Casterly Rock._

But Randyll knew that sometimes a man had to be hard. _Bend the knee!_ he had called down, and Hoster Tully had done so. Such a small thing, he had thought, to bend knees so easily… But when he thought of Belandra and his children he could not help but think that perhaps it was not so small, and not so easy.

He reached for his glass, only to find it empty.

"Perhaps, Damon," Randyll said, sitting back in his chair, "But Thaddius has the King's ear, and I am certain he speaks high praise of House Lannister. This Harlaw holds no such sway."

The room had grown dark and Randyll rose to light a candle.

"I apologize, uncle." Damon said, standing. "I've taken enough of your time."

"No need to apologize," Randyll said, "It is good to know I am not alone in my concerns about the ironborn. If ever a Lannister seeks the Seastone Chair, know that I shall be more than willing to lend my support."

The men embraced, and Damon departed, footfalls echoing in the quiet hallway. Randyll sat back down and poured himself another glass of wine. _I'm drunk,_ he realized as he turned over the glass with a grasping hand.

The red liquid spread over the table like a map of blood.

**\- AEMON -**

Aemon gazed out over the makeshift tents surrounding the ruins of Summerhall.

_So few men… _he thought, troubled. He had hoped that more would respond to the urgency of his message, yet only his own two-hundred soldiers sat in the camp below along with two-hundred men from a lesser Reach house.

_Four-hundred men, _Aemon thought, _Four-hundred brave men... I will hate to see them die. _

"Lord Estermont!" Aemon turned as a young man came running up the rise. He recognized the boy as Ser Eldon's squire, a loyal lad, and quick to serve.

"My lord," the boy repeated, having reached the top of the rise. He quickly knuckled his forehead and kneeled."Thirty lanced riders bearing the direwolf sigil have entered the camp from the North."

_Perhaps not so few._

Aemon smiled, looking down at the kneeling squire. "Knees weren't made for bending to the likes of me boy, save that for the King when he arrives."

_If he arrives,_ he thought, the smile disappearing from his face. "Direct the young Lord Stark to my tent. There's a battle to plan."

"Yes, m'lord."

Aemon didn't wait to hear the boy's response. Instead he walked swiftly down the rise. The camp, when he reached it, was a bustle of activity. All around him soldiers sharpened swords and prepared torches, Hightower and Estermont alike.

_Four-hundred men and not even fifty of them knights, _Aemon thought sourly. He'd equipped his archers with tar and pitch and his knights with obsidian daggers, but still he did not like those odds. "Dead men don't fear death," his father had once told him. These wights would not break like men, and they would not flee like men. It would be a bloody affair, no matter the number.

Ser Lomas was waiting for him when Aemon finally reached the tent, a broad man, more comfortable on the deck of a ship than on solid ground.

"Aemon," he said as the two clasped hands. "We've received ravens from High Garden and the Iron isles, they've pledged three-hundred men to our cause."

"Three-hundred men who won't arrive until the fighting is long over." Aemon surveyed the maps laid out on the table. "Where are the Eastern lords? Where is the King?"

"Still no word from King's Landing."

The news was troubling and Aemon glanced once more at the crude map of the Rainwood laid out before him. "We have too few men, Lomas… and too much ground to cover."

A commotion outside the tent interrupted Lomas' reply and the two men turned as a third figure entered, recognized immediately by the obsidian wolf clasp sitting at his neck.

"Lord Stark-" Lomas began, bowing to the young northern lord who, upon glancing at the knight, promptly ignore him and instead crossed over to the table, grey eyes weighing the Estermont lord standing behind it.

"Came as soon as I received the letter, Estermont. You'd better be sure of this White Walker business. Talking of things that do not exist will surely hurt more than just your reputation."

"Lord Stark," Aemon responded as the young man began rifling through the papers. "I wish I could tell you these were simply the imaginings of a weary mind, but it is not so. Since the original sighting my men dare not set foot into the Rainwoods. Undead animals with glowing blue eyes have been seen from the coastline and-" he hesitated, "there has been no word from Mistwood castle or Rain House for days. We must move strongly and quickly once the king's forces arrive. I worry that Stonehelm may be next."

Edmure smirked and tightened his grip on the pike in his hands, twisting the pole into the ground. "Since your men seem to be scared, it will be your lucky day. I will lead the van with my men."

_Brash young fool,_ Aemon thought, glancing towards Lomas who shook his head slightly. "Young Lord Stark, this is no Dreadfort rebellion; you will find no glory here. These creatures do not fear like men, and they will not fall like men. Perhaps you would do best to have caution."

The stone face seemed to glower at Aemon's words.

"My men don't fear the dead, or they wouldn't have killed so many men." Edmure sniffed and glanced at Lomas. "Stick to your ships, Estermont, and I will stick to what I do best: tossing these sacks of dead flesh with my pike."

Aemon began to voice his objections, but the young Stark lord was growing impatient and cut him off before he could begin. "I will lead the van, Estermont, or I will lead my men back home!"

"Careful, lord Stark." Edmure whirled towards the entranceway where a black haired man stood, bearing the rough face and hands of an ironborn sailor. "I know King Harys, and he often prefers to lead the van himself."

"Lord Harlaw," the northern lord said tersely, sizing up the man and the reaper emblem emblazoned on his breastplate. "I'm surprised to see you so far from the Iron Islands."

Aemon shared in the man's surprise. Though he had sent ravens to every corner of the realm he had only truly expected support from the stormlords.

"I was in King's Landing when the raven arrived," Durran sniffed, marching to the head of the table and beginning to pour over the maps. "King Harys and I had matters to discuss."

"Pray tell, Lord Harlaw, where is King Harys?"

The ironborn gave Aemon only a cursory glance before returning his gaze to the papers laid out before him.

"I had hoped to have the support of his men. As of this moment we have far too few for the task ahead."

_Far too few, and far too young, _Aemon thought, looking over the two lords before him with a tired eye. They had seen battle, Aemon knew, the Harlaw during the second Greyjoy Rebellion and the Stark during the Dreadfort Rebellion. They'd seen battle and lived, true, but it was just as likely to be prowess as it was luck, and Aemon could only pray to the gods that it was the first.

The Harlaw lord waved his hand dismissively and responded with a smirk. "The King was far too busy to personally take part in a grumpkin hunt. Nonetheless, he saw fit to send five-hundred men chasing after shadows."

Aemon was silent. He knew what he'd seen in the hold of that ship, and any who doubted him would learn soon enough that some shadows had more substance than men.

**\- VARYO -**

Across the Narrow Sea, a darkened hall, like most on Lys, stank with the scent of sex. Arrayed on pillows around the hall, men, women, and some of indescribable sexes, coupled and drank. On a raised stadia in the centre, two of the most highly sought-after courtesans performed a captivating erotic performance, protected by two eunuchs. They were heavy with the blood of old Valyria, and men and women came from across the world, paid a chest of gold to bed a whore with dragon's blood.

Tonight's clientele was not wealthy enough to warm their bodies with the purple-eyed, silver-haired girls, so they contented themselves with their view, and cheaper girls and boys to sate their appetites.

Into this room walked Varyo Velaryon, with the easy grace of one raised in Lyscene higher society, but still with a little nerve; the pleasure houses had always slightly scared him, and he had been half a boy when he left his island home. Avoiding the various whores and dancers, he took the long walk to the dais at the far end of the hall. He was acutely aware of being watched, despite the debauchery around him.

_Sellswords don't live long unless they are careful_, he reminded himself, _And these have certainly lived long enough_.

The dais was even more in shadow than the rest of the hall. Varyo greeted the figures sat there with a short bow. "Yarro Brokensteel, it's a pleasure to see you again. I assume you have enjoyed the city well enough?"

One of the men smirked. He had hair dyed red and gold in the Lorathi fashion, and gold trinkets woven into his forked beard. A comely young Lyscene boy was strewn across his lap. "Lys is always a pleasure. To be able to come here on work is a fair treat indeed. These are my sergeants."

His companions were introduced after one another. There was the Cut Lord - a gelded Norvoshi captain with a rightful hatred for the Red God, John o'Steel - a Skagosi warrior built like a bear, and Illya the Torn Pocket - a dangerous water-dancer who was once a fine lady of Pentos.

The final one waited to introduce himself; he was Byman, commander of the Bright Banners, a vicious older man with a rank beard and clothing who called himself Mansbane, although most called him the Blight for his many poxes gained serving every city on Essos.

Varyo nodded at the mercenaries. Yarro he knew, and he could pick the Blight out by sight, but the others were new to him.

"I suppose you have heard I am gathering swords on Bloodstone?" Varyo asked

"Would I have let you distract me from my spoils if I had not?" Yarro laughed and sent his boy running with a smack. "Our Maiden's Men and Byman's Bright Banners can give you three thousand swords. But we need to know what assurances we can get of our price."

"Aerion will provide, if we win of course. And anyway, the Lion backs our enterprise. If you serve us well, then I'm sure lands would be provided, too, if you could hold them."

Across the hall, one of the more drunk sellswords stood up and grabbed at one of the expensive girls near him. The two eunuchs were soon upon him. Holding his arms back, they waited whilst the girl stuffed a cloth in his mouth. The sellsword struggled, but foam began to drip from the corners of the cloth; and he made the acquaintance of Lys' other great talent.

"A toast then!" Yarro shouted, "to fire and blood, gold and steel!" His companions raised their wine likewise. Across the hall, a servant dragged the dead man past the coupling bodies. Barely anyone paused for less than an instant.

**\- AEMON -**

The day broke with a chill dawn. During the night, a thick fog had risen from the damp ground, and fat raindrops fell lethargically, pinging against the iron helms of the assembled men. Aemon watched the skies warily. He was used to the weather of the sea where clouds gathered threateningly on the horizon before breaking on the ship in white crested waves. Here, beneath the looming foliage, he felt as if he were caged, and he shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, painfully aware of the confidence with which the other lords rode into the fog.

As the columns advanced through the forest, a silence hung over them. Men held their torches high, peering into the shadows for the telltale glowing of blue eyes. Yet, the very trees of the Rainwood seemed to extinguish the light, their twisted branches blocking out every last trace of sunlight. As they made their slow march towards Mistwood Castle, the fog seemed to thicken, choking out what little light filtered through the branches.

_The seven protect us,_ Aemon thought.

Ser Lomas rode at Aemon's side, his grey palfrey skittish in the rolling fog. Through the trees, Aemon could make out the other lord's banners - Durran, Stark, Hightower, all hanging low from their pikes like windless sails. King Harys' men led the vanguard, and even now Aemon's breath caught at the sight of the Sword of the Morning, a member of the king's own Kingsguard, wielding the greatsword Dawn like a milky white beacon.

Aemon's own men wielded an assortment of dragonglass weapons: polearms, and daggers, relics that his father had kept in the armory at Greenstone. The king's forces and the Harlaw soldiers had some dragonglass of their own as well, but Edmure Stark had only laughed when offered the obsidian, and the Hightower lord had preferred the weight of castle-forged steel between his hands. _Brash young fools, _Aemon had thought, touching his own dagger briefly before tugging his horse's reins and cantering off to his troops.

Now, with half a day behind them and no end to the rain in sight, Aemon was growing sore in his saddle. He cared little for the animals, and Ser Lomas seemed to share the sentiment.

"Give me the sway of a ship's deck over the sway of a horse any day," the man jibbed, and Aemon could only nod in silent agreement. Better to think about what sat between their feet than what lay before them. His stomach was a hard knot.

Far ahead, deep in the fog, a single trumpet called out. Harooooooooooooooooooo, it cried, sounding to Aemon's ears like some great dying beast. The sound cut off suddenly only to be joined by another, off to the left and in the fog. Aemon gripped the reins tightly as a third horn called out, this time so close that it could have been Lomas blowing it.

Harooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

The fog was so thick that Lomas was merely a black specter now. Aemon drew his shortsword and called out to his men, "Send them to feast in their father's halls!" The closest ones drew their weapons, but the fog seemed to dull the sound. Close by the trumpet's wail pierced the air once more, this time alongside the clash of steel.

_The Seven protect us_, Aemon thought.

And figures came running out of the darkness.

Aemon's battle shrunk to the few feet of ground around his horse as the first ragged man attacked. Cobbled mail and a half-helm did little to protect the man from Aemon's steel and he lashed out low, slicing a deep gash in the man's face and severing his jaw. The figure came forward heedlessly, blue eyes glowing in the mist, and Aemon swung his torch around, shoving the burning stake into the thing's face. Its tongue flapped wordlessly as it was set alight, but already there was another on his left and a second on his right, and he kicked his horse forward, leaving the burning figure flailing in its small pool of light.

"Set them alight!" he shouted, but his men had already disappeared behind him.

All around there seemed to be a sea of fog filled with points of flickering light. Another pair of burning blue eyes leaped out, skin peeling from its thin frame, but Aemon's horse bolted before he could bring his torch level. _Blasted animal._ He gritted his teeth and held onto the reins with his sword hand, the torch held aloft in his left.

Amongst the roots of a twisted tree, a knight bearing the stoney white watchtower of House Hightower fought two wights as Aemon rode past. The man fell beneath them as one clawed desperately at his steel plate while the other wrung its hands around his neck, a sword hanging forgotten through its bowels. The man's scream faded behind Aemon as his horse rode heedlessly onward, and he pulled on the reins, trying to turn the beast around. But too late, he noticed the pale figures to his left, and he was flung from the horse as it reared, kicking and biting at the wights.

The fall knocked the breath from his body, and the world throbbed. His lungs gasped desperately for air. He still clung tightly to his sword, he was thankful for that much at least, but the torch had extinguished itself on the damp ground, and his horse was nowhere to be seen. Aemon fought his way to his knees, his breastplate felt constricting, and he drew in air sharply as he got to his feet. Dented no doubt. There was no time to stop though, no time even to remove the dented iron. He twisted on his heels and ran back the way he had come.

_We have to hold the line. _

Shouts and screams drifted to Aemon's ears as he ran. The fog curled around roots and clung to tree trunks like a death veil. Two figures emerged from the darkness, and Aemon lifted his shortsword to defend himself before he saw the torches in their hands.

"Lord Estermont!" the first shouted. It was Ser Eldon, sword in hand and a gash across his left arm. The second man bore the sigil of house Harlaw on his breast and limped noticeably as they approached.

From somewhere off in the fog a voice shouted out.

"My gods, what are these vile things!"

Ser Eldon turned, but Aemon had already grabbed the torch from the Harlaw man's hand and sprinted towards the source. He'd recognized the voice, Lord Edmure Stark, and without a dragonglass weapon to his name.

With a deep battle cry, Aemon broke into a clearing. Wielding a flaming torch in one hand and an obsidian shortsword in the other, he lunged at the first figure which loomed over the young Stark lord. The swing of his torch barely missed the creatures face, but the thrust of his sword found its mark.

Screaming, the white walker fell.

"Lord Stark, get back to the line! These creatures cannot be killed by weapons of steel!" Edmure's pike spun and dipped beneath one of the creature's defenses, but without the dragonglass tip it was next to useless.

Turning, Aemon thrust his torch into the thing's open jaw, sending it careening backwards. Eldon, who had jumped through the bracken to join the fray, quickly dispatched it with his obsidian dagger. The third white walker had already fallen.

From the trees entered a hulking form - a bear, the flesh already rotting off of its body. Letting out a roar that reeked of death, it charged.

"Run, Lord Stark!"

Aemon turned towards the beast, shortsword drawn as it advanced. He swung his torch low, and the thing stopped for a moment, blue eyes reflecting the dull torchlight.

"I do not run, Lord Estermont!"

The Stark was at his side now, ragged and panting, but holding his pike steady as he jabbed it sharply at the bear. The beast rose on its hind legs and roared. Its underbelly had been torn open and entrails hung out like coiled rope.

_Jeyne,_ Aemon thought as the thing advanced once more. _Martin, Eldon, Bennet, Willas, Elena, little Katelyn._ The thought of his wife and children gave him strength and he held his ground with steel resolve.

Suddenly, a figure dressed all in white-silver armor hurdled over a fallen tree and slid a glowing milk-glass blade through the mouth of the bear. The animal swatted at the shadow, but the man dodged and plunged a torch into its gaping maw. With a sound like wind filling a sail, the fire caught and the great beast was set aflame, filling the clearing with light.

"Ulrich!"

The Sword of the Morning turned as the bear collapsed and pulled his glowing blade out of the thing's skull. The steel shone like the sun itself and it seemed to Aemon almost as if it radiated warmth.

"My lords," the man said, resheathing the legendary sword. "I believe the battle is won."

**\- DAMON -**

He was late to the Tournament of Harrenhal, arriving on the frosted castle grounds just a day before the games were to commence. Tents were set up, drinks were poured, and hopeful young knights were already practicing diligently when Damon and his party finally made their way through the impromptu city of canvas.

He had planned on watching his younger brother in the melee from a drunken stupor in the stands, but instead, his father informed him that he would be participating in the joust. _"I will not have House Lannister made a fool of once again by that boy,"_ were Loren's words to Albar Clegane, when Damon overheard the conversation in which his father asked the bannerman to accompany his son to the Riverlands.

_A chaperone,_ he thought indignantly as they passed through the rows of tents on foot, horses left to water at their own camp. Albar was hulking and brooding, a poor conversationalist, but at least Damon had found Thaddius. The kingsguard was the taller of the two and his golden locks where straight where Damon's were messy waves, but both brothers had their father's green eyes.

"I cannot be gone long, Damon," Thaddius was saying. "Ser Jaime Florent will have my head. He doesn't like me as it is, and he would have a thing or two to say about _you,_ as well. If he found out I were shirking my duties to accompany my brother for drinks..."

"Relax, Thad." Damon looked at the flags above each tent as they walked, a rainbow menagerie of colors and sigils, animals and faces and even food. _Grapes for House Redwyne. Would that I could have been fostered at a vineyard instead of some dreary island. _"We haven't had the chance to speak in ages, and family is as important as the rest of those things you vowed to keep dear to your heart when they anointed you."

The sun was setting, and a breeze began to pick up and stir the banners hoisted over the pavilions. Thaddius kept stealing nervous glances over his shoulder, as if he expected King Harys himself to push open the canvas flap of one of the tents and come stepping out into the crisp night air.

"My vows are everything," the young knight said, and Damon put a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to halt.

"_Family _is everything," he corrected Thaddius, their father's favorite quip, and that was when Damon caught sight of the grey direwolf on a field of snow white.

The tent flap was tied open and Lord Edmure's desk was strewn with letters, a candle burning low at his elbow when the Lannisters and Albar approached.

"Stark," Damon greeted him with a smirk, leaving out his lordly title, "What a pleasure it is to see you reading a book. I did not think northerners to be literate."

Edmure looked up at Damon with a disgruntled frown, his face cut like melt water on a crag. He was dressed in fur and leather with an obsidian sigil clasp at his throat, and tossed the letters aside.

"Plan on making another spectacle today, Lannister? Maybe you will ask the King to be his Hand, now that Seaworth is dead?" He pointed to the parchment that bore the news as he leaned back in his seat. "So tell me, cub, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? I see you've brought your bodyguards. Does wolf blood _frighten_ you?"

Damon looked around Stark's tent with mild amusement. It was bleak and dreary, filled with dark colors and heavy furs, the man being known for his hunting prowess. _Hunting and skinning. _Damon looked out of place with his flashy Lannister garb of red and gold, a ring on each hand worth half the incomes the North's winter town could expect to see in a year.

"You know," he remarked carefully, "Most of what I've heard of northerners has proved true. They're slow witted, quick tempered, and as refined as wildlings. But one thing I don't think true for a minute is what they say about their appetite for drink. Northmen brag about the mead their fat bellies can hold but I don't think there's a man north of the Stony Sept who could out drink me."

He looked smugly down his nose at Lord Edmure, waiting to see if he would take the bait, but before Edmure could reply they were interrupted by a new voice.

"Brother!" Jojen Stark appeared, giving the Lannisters an uneasy smile before joining Edmure inside the tent, three chattering women following behind him. The younger Stark had the red brown hair of a Tully and the grey blue eyes of his father. The scent of cheap ale clung to the camp followers who accompanied him like perfume.

"Choose one," Jojen said to his brother, "the other two are for the morning."

Edmure glanced at the whores and a brief look of disapproval crossed his face before he turned back to the guests. "Jojen, you've arrived just in time to watch me humiliate a Lannister... again." He grinned and gestured to some empty chairs within the tent. "We are going to see who holds their wine better, the hardy northmen or the pampered princes of Casterly Rock!"

"I won't be drinking-" Thaddius began, but Jojen stepped forward and clapped a hand on his shoulder, guiding him into the tent.

"Nonsense!" he said. "We cannot let our brothers have all the fun." He led Thaddius to a chair and shoved a whore onto his lap before he had even finished seating himself, and Edmure poured the drinks.

"To King Harys Baratheon!" Damon toasted once they had their cups, grinning. He downed the wine quickly and refilled it carefully, trying not to spill any on any of the letters strewn haphazardly about the table.

Thaddius sipped his own drink hesitantly, visibly uncomfortable with the camp follower giggling on his knee, tracing a grubby finger across his fine white armor. Albar stood somberly in the corner, watching the scene with caution and the slightest hint of distaste. _Why must some people be _forced_ to have fun?_

The men drank late into the evening, the sun soon slipping beneath the horizon with the moon rising to replace it, and the wine was the only thing that kept them all from shivering in the winter's night. Damon was content to see the tenseness slowly leave his brother's posture as Thaddius slumped in his chair, drink in hand, laughing at some conversation with Jojen. The whore in his lap had wrapped his white cloak about her shoulders for warmth, and Damon wished their father could have witnessed the sight.

_His perfect son with a camp whore swaddled in his beautiful cloak._

Even Edmure had become less stiff as the casks emptied, his cold Stark face melting with every cup. "So, Damon," he said after Jojen finished a drunken rendition of _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ that the oldest Lannister had been delighted to join in on. "Will you be participating in the joust, or have you come here to snake around and scheme like the other southron lords? They say you're not half bad when sober, though I understand it's a sight more rare than a direwolf south of the Wall."

Damon finished his cup and refilled it sloppily now, spilling wine onto the letter from King's Landing. Purple splotches appeared on the parchment, blotting out the letters that told of the old Hand's passing.

"I wouldn't be much of a Lannister if I couldn't swing a sword or knock some steel man off a horse," he replied. "People say that gold can't buy everything, but it _can_ buy you the best master of arms in the realm, as well as the strongest armor and the finest horse. My father knows that. If it's entertainment that you want, though, put a bow in my hands. I'm more like to hit my own foot than any target."

Edmure laughed heartily, and Damon leaned over the desk and reached for the Lord's chalice. "Here, let me refill your cup."

Before he could grasp the goblet, Edmure unsheathed his skinning knife and slammed it with a _THUD_ into the table, a hair away from Damon's hand. The laughter ceased, the whores startled, and the mood in the tent turned tense. With its milky white handle fashioned to look like a pack of wolves, the blade was curved like a claw, eerily dull from use.

Edmure broke the uncomfortable silence with another laugh, and released his grip on the knife to sit back in his chair. "I have had my fill for now, Lannister," he said. "Now you must excuse me, I am a busy man. The luxuries of wine and women are best left to men like you and my brother."

Damon eyed the skinning blade cautiously as he rose, flexing his fingers to make certain they were all accounted for. "My lords Stark," he said with a slight bow. "I have enjoyed your company immensely. I suppose this night goes to show that the lion and the wolf are capable of not behaving as cats and dogs. Thaddius, if you will."

His younger brother stumbled to his feet, and the whore pouted with disappointment. "My knight!" she said, lifting her skirt above her knee to show him a freckled thigh. "You do not wish to take me with you?"

Thaddius turned beet red and started to stammer a reply before Damon took him by the arm and pulled him from the tent. Beneath the star streaked sky, the camp was alive with roaring fires and raucous laughter.

"They were much nicer than I thought," Thaddius declared as he walked crookedly beside his brother, fastening his cloak back to the pauldrons of his white armor.

"The whores?"

"The Starks."

"Ah, yes." Damon nodded, taking care to place one foot before the other. He could hear Albar's steel boots clinking behind him as they made their way back to the tent, and did not wish to appear as drunk as he felt.

"I'm doing well, brother," Thaddius said, reaching out to put a hand on Damon's shoulder. His gauntlets were heavy and Damon nearly stumbled. "In the Kingsguard, I'm doing well. I have been controlling myself, like you said, I..." He hiccupped. "I... You would be proud of me."

Damon reached up to place his hand on his brother's, partly as a gesture of affection, and partly to steady himself beneath the weight of Thaddius' armored grip. The wine was making his head spin but the feeling was a familiar one, and pleasant. "Don't be absurd," he said, his breath frosting in the cold night air. "I am always proud of you, Thad."

**\- AESLYN -**

Lady Aeslyn Targaryen strode between the rows of tents, her small household guard behind her, admiring all the colors and banners of the noble houses. House Targaryen had no great canvas tents or wooden pavilions, no black and red flags, no images of three headed dragons emblazoned on the shields of brave knights. In fact, they had no knights at all.

_I don't need a knight,_ Aeslyn thought. _I need a husband._ And while her house had been exiled to Sharp Point since the War of Five Kings, she was not pessimistic about her prospects in regards to marriage. The two Targaryen sisters were considered by many to be the most beautiful in all the seven kingdoms. _Though I am fairer than Danae. _

They girls were both petite, fair skinned and slender, with long flowing hair of a silvery blonde hue, and vibrant purple eyes, but their similarities ended with their appearances. Danae had shared no interests with her older sister, choosing to spend her time with her nose buried in books rather than before a looking glass as Aeslyn preferred. _And she will learn soon enough that men care little for a woman's mind._

As she wandered between banners of griffins, and snakes, and mermaids, Aeslyn's eyes scanned the crowds of smallfolk, squires, noblemen, and knights, taking in the handsome faces, the sparkling armor, the muscular builds of the men with great swords at their hips, some of the blades as long as she was tall.

So engrossed was she in her observance of a particular knight with dark hair and a glittering turquoise breastplate, that she did not see the one in front of her, and walked right into him.

"I beg your pardon, my lord," she quickly apologized, her hands flying to her gown to smooth out any wrinkles.

"My… My lady, please, forgive me, I did not see you there." He bowed hurriedly. The knight was tall and fair, with hair of gold and flashing green eyes, a white cloak fastened about his shoulders.

"Ser Lannister," she said with a flirtatious smile, recognizing him at once. "I am thankful that it is _you_ I have run into, a man most chivalrous, and not some ruffian hedge knight instead, else I might have found myself a damsel in distress."

Thaddius reddened. "You are most kind, Lady...ah, Lady…"

"Targaryen," she finished for him, inwardly annoyed that he did not recognize her. Then again, at court Thaddius stayed close to the King, and she was relegated to a spot in the back. She maintained her smile anyways. "Aeslyn Targaryen. Are you looking forward to any of the games in particular, today?" she asked.

"Well, the melee should be exciting," he responded, seeming much more comfortable discussing matters of combat than exchanging pleasantries, "But nothing will be able to top the archery competition this morning. Lord Edmure Stark was completely inebriated. His arrows were so far off the mark, they were starting to get worried that he would injure someone… Until then, he did. A Lannister squire, unfortunately. They say that the poor boy likely won't live…"

Thaddius suddenly seemed to realize that perhaps he wasn't discussing matters that were appropriate for a noblewoman, and he blushed again. "Forgive me, Lady Targaryen. I'm sure that you don't want to hear about squires taking arrows to the chest."

"It is no bother," Aeslyn assured him with a wave of her hand. "I would hear anything you had to say, Ser Thaddius, if it meant that I could simply remain in your presence and listen to you speak."

She took no small delight in how his cheeks reddened at her remark, and he stammered out a reply. "Ah, yes, um, that is… that is very… very kind of you to say. You are very…. very kind, my lady."

Aeslyn edged closer to him, dragging her eyes over his body once more, and he almost looked as though he wanted to flee. "Will you be participating in the melee tomorrow?" she asked sweetly.

"I, uh, yes. Yes I will," he managed to answer.

She reached into a pocket of her gown and withdrew a handkerchief of deep obsidian, with a three headed dragon embroidered in red silk thread. "Perhaps my favor will bring you luck then," she smiled, lifting her eyes to stare into his own, green like emeralds, like all Lannisters of Casterly Rock. She took his hand and placed the handkerchief in his palm, then closed his fingers around it.

Thaddius stood frozen on the spot, and the Lady of House Targaryen offered a deep curtsy before winking and striding past him, leaving the smitten knight clutching the black handkerchief with the red three headed dragon.

**\- A CROW -**

Bill was cold.

That was nothing new though; Bill usually found himself cold during his long shifts atop The Wall. The howling winds and gusting snow tended to have that effect on most men. Tonight was especially cold though, and he found himself stomping his boots against the frost crusted ice and wrapping his black cloak tightly around his body.

"The others take this chill," he said aloud, eliciting a grunt from his wall mate, Dornish Donnel, a man who was, in fact, born and raised five miles from the Deepwood Motte and had only earned his nickname because of a jape from a fellow brother about his lack of hot-bloodedness. At the moment though, Bill didn't care to tease him about his brusque response and instead tore off his gloves to blow on his icy fingers, trying to bring back a little warmth to his freezing appendages. "I know we took the vows," he said, "But some days it feels as if they actually mean to let us die at our posts."

Miles below them, the Shadow Tower sat black against the ice, and Bill thought longingly of the fire roaring in the dining hall. Old Sam, the man who kept the fire burning, wasn't likely to let anyone stand idly in front of it for long, but at the moment Bill would have preferred to be anywhere but atop this blasted wall in this blasted cold. The night was dark, and they weren't likely to see anything at all.

A metallic clank interrupted Bill's thoughts and he turned towards the winch where Dornish Donnel already stood. "Someone's comin' up," he stated, looking at Bill expectantly until the other joined him at the winch. When the two were settled, they began to turn the giant crank, a job normally reserved for mules, but one that had somehow fallen to the brothers themselves when more and more of the animals had been called away to navigate the treacherous ice of the Wall's ungraveled paths.

The two men grunted with their efforts, breath frosting in the air with each labored step. But step by step they went, the chain wrapping its way around the structure and raising the cage until finally it reached the summit. With a final screech the structure halted, and a black brother stepped through the iron gates.

"Normund," Bill called amiably, resting against the winch and smiling until he noticed the look on his brother's face. "What? What is it?"

"He's dead," Normund Vance said simply, emotionlessly. " Commander Joss is dead."

**\- DANAE -**

The dry winter air rushed to meet Danae Targaryen as she walked through the sea of tents at the tournament. A cloak of brown fur protected her silvery-blonde hair from the lightly falling snow and in her hands she carried an old and travel worn book titled _The Life of the Triarch Belicho_. Jousts and tournaments were of little interest to her, and she intended to find a quiet place to read away from the bustle and chaos.

The young James Rivers was at her side. He was tall and thin with dark green eyes and his long brown hair was tied back into a ponytail. The waterdancer was one of precious few guards in service to House Targaryen, and while Danae's older sister regarded him as nothing more than a bastard with a weak sword, Danae slowly came to view him as a friend. Perhaps it was because she did not have many.

The pair stopped to lean against the fence post of the jousting ring, James watching the games with passing interest and Danae opening up to the page she had left off on, when a voice cut through her dreams of giants and Volantis and conquests.

"Might I join you, my lady?"

When she glanced up from her tome, Danae found a man who looked to be in his late fifties with a long beard of black hair streaked with white, long chains of metal around his neck. _A maester,_ she realize, and frowned in confusion.

"Hello, Lady Danae." His voice was soft and his smile softer. "I am Grand Maester Orin. I serve King Harys in King's Landing, and I lately I have noticed the presence of you and your sister at court. Tell me, how is House Targaryen of Sharp Point faring these days?"

Confused that a member of the Small Council was speaking with her, Danae glanced around hesitantly before replying. "Not well, Grand Maester," she answered honestly. "We are but a mere shadow of the Targaryens of old. We have no true home, no armies, and very little wealth. Sharp Point is little but an abandoned watchtower we are allowed to live on out of sympathy."

Now it was his turn to appear surprised. _Did he expect me to answer his question with pleasantries and falsehoods?_ she wondered. _I have never been any good at either._

"Waterdancer," the Grand Maester said, turning to James with an apologetic smile. "Would you give us a moment to converse in private?" James gave the man a wary look, but with a nod from Danae he left her side and stood some distance away, glancing in her direction from time to time while doing a poor job of pretending to watch the joust.

"What you say is true," the Grand Maester told Danae, his voice suddenly low. "But you do still have dragons." Orin smiled at the look of shock on her face. "I interrogated your cousin Rhaegar after he was sentenced to the Night's Watch. It is a shame that you must keep them in hiding. Do not worry, Lady Targaryen, as it is my intention to keep your secrets. I only ask for a small favor in return."

_I should walk away,_ she thought, but instead she hardened her gaze. _No. I will not be blackmailed by an old man, no matter his station. _"Tell me," she said, and she was grateful that her voice sounded more bold than she felt.

"I have an interest in the magic of Old Valyria and the blood of your ancestors. From what I can deduce, that is something we both share." The Grand Maester nodded at the book in her hands. "It is my wish to take you to the Doom with your dragon. While there, I believe that the creature will be strengthened by the magic of Valyria and we can use the beast to restore House Targaryen to its former glory."

"And why would a Baratheon wish to aid my house?" She glanced around to make certain that no one was listening, before whispering angrily, "It was your kin who took the seat from mine, and your blood sits upon it now."

"Lady Danae, tell me what pride I can take in my King. The 'Lord of Seven Courses,' they call him. He fills his small council with his dullard friends and spends his time drinking and whoring and chasing the Tyrell girl. The Seven Kingdoms will rise against him soon and I will have my throat slit because of that very blood of mine. The realm will then find itself in a storm of swords as each pretender rises to reach for the throne that _your_ ancestors built.

"The only hope for the realm that I can see is through the blood of the dragon. Aegon the Conqueror brought fire and blood to Westeros, but it was his dragons that brought peace and stability to the seven kingdoms. _You_ have a dragon."

Danae searched his face for any hint of falseness. _What choices do I have?_ she wondered._ Do I live a life of boredom as some minor nobleman's wife, or do I risk my life for the glory of my house, as my ancestors before me? _

The Grand Maester cut off any reply. "If you are willing to take your rightful place, I ask that you meet me at the Wall in a few months time. Go home and acquire your belongings, your dragon included. You will not need to inform me of your decision. I will know."

He was gone as quickly as he appeared, his swirling dark robes vanishing into the crowd once he left her place by the fence, and James reappeared at her side. "What did he want?" he asked cautiously.

"James," Danae spoke softly despite the hardness of her gaze, still staring at the place where Orin had vanished. "How do you feel about returning to Essos?"

"I'd follow you to the ends of the earth, m'lady."

"Then there is something you will need to know about me, about my sister, too." Danae took him by the elbow and led him away from the crowds to a secluded area near the sea of tents. "First of all," she said once she was certain no one could hear them, "I need not remind you that what I am telling you could result in all of us losing our heads." She awaited his nod and continued. "After Daenerys the Mother failed to reclaim the iron throne and after she lost her dragons in Westeros she fled to the Free Cities. You've heard all this before, yes?"

"I spent many years in Braavos. Everyone knows of this. Your family lived peacefully in my city for generations."

"What remains a secret," Danae went on, "even in Braavos, is that she fled Westeros with little to her name but three dragon eggs." His eyes grew wide.

"Dragons?" he repeated, and Danae put a finger to her lips and looked once more over her shoulder before continuing.

"Yes, dragon eggs. My family lived in Braavos for many generations until my grandparents moved our house back to Westeros, to poverty and ridicule."

"Everyone in Braavos knows the stories of mad sibling-spouses Elaena and Daemon Targaryen. Rumors of their insanity spread far and wide. I remember one tale of Daemon's madness in particular…"

James was cut short as Danae interrupted sharply. "It is known throughout the Free Cities that the Braavosi gossip more than highborn ladies. As I was saying, my grandparents claimed the abandoned and secluded Sharp Point. Elaena and Daemon sacrificed their first three children to the flame in order to hatch the dragon eggs, but kept the creatures hidden for fear of them being seized and slaughtered. As a result, they remained small and ineffectual."

"I knew that your cousin had a dragon, that's why King Harys sent him to the Wall, but what you're saying is-"

"-that I have a dragon, too," she finished for him. "Aeslyn as well."

James appeared dumbfounded. "You mean to tell me that I've been in your service for all this time now, and you never thought to mention that there were two dragons living at Sharp Point? Where are you keeping them?"

"In the woods, just beyond the keep." Danae shrugged. "Aeslyn and I take turns riding out there in the morning to bring them the fish we catch from the shore. You might have found out much earlier if you rose before noon each day."

The waterdancer frowned. "And what has this got to do with the old man you were talking to?"

"That was the Grand Maester, James. He wishes to take me to Valyria, to see if the magic there will grow and change my dragon into the kind of beast my ancestors once rode."

"Magic? Danae..." His frown only deepened. "I never took you for the kind of girl to believe in things like magic... I know that your sister can be, well..."

"Abusive," Danae offered. "Shallow. Vain. Mad."

His face flushed. "Yes, well... I'm just not certain that following the Grand Maester to Valyria is a better option than remaining with her here. What you speak of is treason. What if this is all some ruse of the Baratheons to steal your dragon?" He shook his head back and forth and looked down at his feet as he dug the toe of his boot into the thin dusting of snow that the shade of the tents had preserved.

"I'm not saying we go to Valyria, James." Danae lowered her voice and pulled her fur cloak tightly around her shoulders. "The Grand Maester is offering me a trip that will take me out of my sister's clutches. The Targaryen ties in Braavos are surely still strong. If I can leave the Grand Maester behind once we arrive on the eastern continent, I can begin to build my own life away from my sister. Why not take my house to Braavos as Daenerys did?"

_And why not travel beyond Braavos and see the wonders of this vast world?_ Danae thought to herself. _Why not travel the Free Cities and see the Smoking Sea and even Sothoryos, or the Basilisk Isles, or any of the other hundreds of places I have read about?_

"The decision is yours, m'lady," James replied solemnly. "But know that where you go, I will follow."

Danae smiled, for the first time in as long as she could remember. "Then it looks as though we are going east."

The warm and sweet smell of cinnamon drifted through the air as the pair made their way back to the tourney grounds, passing a young serving girl selling baked apples from a wooden box hung around her neck from a cracked leather strap. Small rays of sunlight peeked through puffy white clouds in the sky, melting what little snow remained on the fields, and a fool cart-wheeled through the crowd in a checked suit of gold and black.

He snatched three tomatoes from a vendor's stall, juggling them to the applause of nearby noblemen and women while he hopped from one foot to the next. Danae paused to watch him, and James' hand moved protectively to the hilt of his sword as the fool caught sight of her and grinned.

_At least here is one man more a fool than I,_ Danae thought as the juggler returned the tomatoes to the annoyed seller and came bouncing towards her. _Or would even he not be mad enough to follow a stranger's wild promises to a foreign land?_

The fool made a showing of emptying his pockets in front of Danae, in search of some unknown trinket. "Ah, here stands one of the last Dragons!" His voice was silky and high-pitched, layered with an accent from the Free Cities that Danae did not recognize. She felt the gaze of the passersby all around her as he finally pulled a coin from his pocket and took a step closer. He flipped the silver back and forth between his hands.

"Everyone hold your breath now, and let us see how this coin will land!" The fool tossed it into the air and let it fall to the frozen ground before leaping upon it, shielding the coin from view as he closed it tightly in his fist. He brought it to his face and peeked between his fingers, then looked up at Danae as his face contorted into a disturbing smile, as many empty gaps as there were brown teeth.

He broke into shrill giggles and then bolted from the crowd, the bells of the hat atop his head jiggling merrily. Danae felt a flush creep up her neck as the men and women around her began to whisper, and she whirled around quickly, shoving her way past them in an effort to escape the attention. _One of the last Dragons, _the fool had called her. _So why do I suddenly feel like a mouse?_

She could hear James calling her name behind her, but only walked faster, until she was nearly running. _Dragons do not care about fools, or old Maesters, or anyone for that matter. Dragons need no one. Dragons can fly, and breathe fire, and-_

A hand reached out and caught her by the arm, yanking her backwards pulling her from her thoughts. "There you are," its owner said, and Danae looked up into her sister's violet eyes, so like her own. "Where did you run off to? Did you think you could find some lord's tent to crawl into? I told you we would be staying in the castle. Lord Baelish has invited us as guests of honor."

"I don't _want_ to stay in the castle," Danae protested, wrenching her arm free from Aeslyn's painful grip. "I _told_ you. Emmon Baelish is a mad man." _Though not as mad as you, dear sister._

"You will go where I tell you to go." Aeslyn sneered. "I am the head of our household. I can send you wherever I like, to Emmon Baelish's castle, his bed, or the far reaches of Asshai if I choose to. When Father died, you became mine to control."

_You're wrong,_ Danae thought stubbornly, but she bit her tongue. _It isn't Asshai I'll be going to, it's Valyria. The magic _there _will grow my dragon, not the magic of The Shadow._

James was still calling her name, frantically now, and Aeslyn turned towards his voice before looking back at Danae with a sinister smile. "I can wed you to that bastard waterdancer if I want and you can both live in poverty. Is that what you would prefer?" She reached out to stroke Danae's hair, twisting a strand of her silver blond tresses around one pale finger. "You need only beg it of me, sweet sister."

Danae shoved Aeslyn's hand aside, and the older Targaryen's eyes flashed with anger. "Do you think I care who you lie with?" Aeslyn spat. "Your maidenhead is worthless. _I_ am the head of our house, _I _am the one to whom noble lords seek to marry their heirs."

"Noble lords?" Danae scowled back at her sister. "What lord would marry himself to exile and shame?" _What lord would marry madness?_

Aeslyn gripped her sister's shoulders tightly, fingernails digging into Danae's skin, and turned her towards a group of knights in revelry passing by with golden lions painted upon shields of red. "Do you see that man?" she asked. "The one at the head of that column with the golden curls and handsome smile? That is Damon Lannister, and he will be my husband shortly after this tournament."

Danae followed her sister's gaze and her father's words rang in her ears. Words that he had told her long ago at a tournament not unlike the one she was witnessing now. "A dragon does not concern herself with the opinion of lions," she said.

Aeslyn laughed. "Dragon? I see no dragon here. Tell me sister, where are the dragon banners? Where are the dragon knights? Where are the men and women chanting for our house? The days of fire and blood are over, dear sister." She leaned in close, her lips barely touching Danae's ear. "Hear me roar."

_._

**\- MELLARA -**

The waves of Blackwater Bay crashed against the rocky beaches outside the Westerosi capital, eating away at the craggy landscape just outside the city's fortifications.

The inns, homes, and winesinks within the high stone walls were built crookedly with stories stacked haphazardly one on top of the other, jutting out in any which direction. In many places, the walls of separate establishments came close to touching as they climbed towards the skies and it was possible to step from the balcony of one house onto that of another.

The people of the populous port city were crooked, too. Pick-pockets, petty thieves, slimy merchants, and drunks all called the capital home. They walked with crooked gaits down the crooked alleyways and some even had crooked teeth through which they lied with the same ease as an ironborn sailed. From Flea Bottom to Fishmonger's Square, smallfolk scurried chaotically about their business and their lives, unaware and for the most part uncaring about the politics of high lords.

But in the great red castle atop Aegon's Hill, life was much more orderly.

Smell aside, Mellara was happy to be back in the capital. She enjoyed the benefits of her family's close friendship with the King and all it afforded them, including baskets full of freshly baked sweet rolls and free roam of the castle. There were plenty of interesting conversations for her to accidentally overhear in the Red Keep - much more tantalizing than anything she heard at Highgarden.

"Gawen Waters is in love with Missy," Mellara was saying to her older sister. Her voice was muffled by her skirts. "I heard Lum talking about it in the kitchens this morning. Theo is livid about it, but there's nothing he can do really since they work different shifts." The youngest Tyrell was practicing her handstands, and the heavy folds of her gown fell about her head as she tried to balance herself.

Maude looked up from her stitches and rolled her eyes with a smile. "Is that your latest bit of gossip, little one?" she asked teasingly. "The romances and affairs of baseborn servants?"

"It's rude to call them baseborn," Mellara replied before losing her balance and dropping to the floor with a thud. Her face was red from hanging upside down and she gathered her tangled hair back and twisted it in a knot to keep it out of her face.

Maude looked at her little sister with dismay. "Mellara, it took me ages to brush your hair this morning. Why do you thwart my efforts to make you into a proper lady?"

Mellara ignored the question. "I have gossip about highborn people, too," she declared, climbing to her feet and walking over to the bed where her own needlework sat abandoned. She flopped down onto the feather mattress and picked up the embroidery carelessly, sending a spool of thread tumbling off the bed and rolling into a corner, leaving a trail of moss green string behind it.

"James Arryn's little brother has a bastard."

The stitches she had already made were sloppy and knotted, and didn't resemble the rose they were meant to.

"The Vale lord's brother?" Maude didn't look up from her work. Her own yellow rose was flawless.

"Uh huh. And the King is going to name a new Hand soon." Mellara picked at her crooked stitches, trying to untangle some of the worse looking ones. "Everyone thinks he should choose Lord Loren, since he's a Lannister after all, and everyone knows they've got gobs of money and soldiers, but Harys doesn't like Loren ever since he married that Greyjoy woman. He only liked his brother."

Maude shot a disapproving glare at her sister. "Where do you hear these things, little one? Are you sneaking about in places you don't belong?"

Mellara's face reddened guiltily but she shrugged and then rolled onto her back, holding the needlework up above her head for a better look. _It's a mess, _she thought, pursing her lips. _It looks more like House Rowan's tree than it does a flower._

"Other people say it should be our father," Mellara went on. "But if you marry the King then Harys won't need solidify any ties to the Reach. It is better to give gifts to those who might be your enemies rather than those who are already your friends."

Maude set down her embroidery and stared at the youngest Tyrell. "Those don't sound like your own words, Mellara. Who are you eavesdropping on?"

A knock interrupted them before Mellara could invent a lie, and Maude stood and left the bedchambers to see who was calling, taking her perfectly stitched rose with her. Mellara was grateful for the timing. If she knew the places her sister sneaked about in, Maude would go straight to their lord father and see to it that she never left her room again.

"King's Landing is a dangerous place," Maude had warned her on their arrival. "This is not Highgarden. Be mindful of where you stick your nose while here, or someone will catch you and cut it off."

Mellara rolled back onto her stomach and sighed, blowing the loose strands of her hair out of her face. Their older brother Troy had given her much the same warning, likely because Maude told him to.

_At least Benjen never scolds me,_ she thought. Benjen was the third son of Lord Baelor, or second if one chose not to count Olyvar, who had forsaken his name and titles to become a maester. Their father never liked to count Olyvar.

The green spool of thread lay forgotten in the corner of the room as Mellara wove gold stitches through her fabric with the gracefulness of a Mormont woman dancing at her wedding feast. She thought of her brothers and wondered if they were enjoying the capital as much as she and Maude were.

Doubtless Troy was excited to be in the presence of so many knights, and especially those of the Kingsguard. He was recently knighted himself and Mellara was glad that he now had other people to wax to about chivalry and the Seven. Every time he went off about honor and protecting women and rescuing damsels she wanted to gag.

Distracted by her thoughts, Mellara yelped when she accidentally pricked her finger.

"Stupid flower!" she muttered. She tossed the needlework aside and sucked at the blood that beaded on her thumb. "Maude?" she called, realizing that her sister had been gone for some time now.

She climbed off of the bed and wandered into the main chambers of the apartment she had been sharing with her sister since their return to King's Landing.

"Maude?" she called again, glancing about the empty room curiously. Her eyes landed on the door to the hall, which was left oddly ajar.

She approached it carefully and stood in the threshold, glancing left and then right down the quiet corridor but seeing no trace of her sister. Finally, she looked down and noticed something out of place on the stone floors of the castle… Maude's needlework, half completed in perfectly straight stitches, the words at the bottom reading

r


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The Second Son Sails – 2

The Wolf and the Lion – 4

A Rose in Oldtown – 9

As High as Honor – 13

Calling the Banners – 15

A Secret at Sharp Point – 19

Promises at Bloodstone – 23

The Lady Dragon – 29

Confronting a King –32

Chapter Two

A Journey North –

A Journey North – 36

The Black Wedding – 38

A Brother Scorned – 41

A Fallen Star – 44

A Crow without Wings – 50

Arrival at the Rock – 51

The Griffin Stirs – 54

The Dragon's Proposal – 57

Swords and Spears – 60

The Gold Wedding – 64

Dawn Lost – 70

Watchers on the Wall – 72

A Father's Orders – 75

A Dragon Takes Flight – 78

Escort to King's Landing – 83

Forgiveness – 86

Night on Blackwater Bay – 88

**\- THE SHIP CAPTAIN -**

The tavern was a dark place, smelling of earth and smoke.

Along the far wall, the captain of the _Lion's Roar _sat pressed between a table of boisterous Dornish sailors and the crew of a carrack out of Essos. They spoke in the thick tongue of their homeland and the words washed over Abelar's untrained ears like an ocean breeze.

There were better alehouses in Lannisport for certain, Abelar could name them all, but when a man was looking for talk there was no better place than the _Serpent's Head_.

_A den of thieves and cutthroats_, Abelar knew, but cutthroat's had loose tongues, and even thieves emptied their pockets somewhere.

And Abelar had a tale to tell.

The man who sat opposite him wore a wide floppy hat of straw which covered his face. Bronzed skin peeked out from beneath the leather and sealskin tunic of a clammer, but this man did not deal in clams, Abelar knew. This man dealt in secrets.

"A boy," the man said, his low voice creeping out from beneath the brim of his hat. "An oddity certainly."

"More than an oddity, a message." Abelar smiled, his teeth red from the sourleaf he chewed. "I've never known Lord Loren Lannister to accommodate the requests of a boy, nor a foreign boy at that. He was expecting him."

"For what," the man said.

Abelar spread his arms wide, and grinned his bloody grin. "Not a clue."

Quietly, the mummer pushed a gold coin across the table which Abelar promptly flipped in the air and bit before pocketing. "Bloodstone," he said. "The _Lion's Roar_ leaves tomorrow with the lord himself and his lovely daughter."

"Not news in itself," the man in the hat replied. "Lords are known to travel from time to time."

"Aye," Abelar conceded, "But you've never known Loren Lannister. Cold as stone he is, and harder than Casterly Rock itself. He's not a man known for taking leisure." Abelar glanced from side to side before leaning forward. "Lannister soldiers have been amassing throughout Lannisport. You can't walk a foot without bumping into a man in the old red and gold."

A flash of interest crossed the man's eyes and Abelar grinned, red teeth and red gums.

"Leisure is for peacetime, and I do not think Lord Loren is preparing for peace."

**\- JOJEN -**

When Jojen awoke it was just outside a tavern in one of the sleepier quarters of Lord Harroway's Town, rain battering down against his face and a boot kicking his side.

"No, Edmure, just another hour…" he mumbled.

His head felt like an axe had sliced it open. Images of the night before swam in his mind's eye. He remembered a brawl with a smug Lannister and far too much wine, but not much else.

"I'm not your damned brother," he heard as another kick landed on his ribs.

Jojen opened his eyes and blinked confusedly at his surroundings before looking up to see the hazy figure of a knight towering above him.

The memories came back to him slowly.

Nearly a day earlier, Jojen had been locked in a bitter argument outside of Harrenhal with Thaddius Lannister, after the melee event. Jojen had insisted that Thaddius had been fighting dirty with his blunted tourney sword, striking at the young wolf's fingers. He pointed out that Thaddius at one point grabbed a small young squire and used him as a human shield when his own was lost, which the Stark claimed to be dishonorable and cruel.

Thaddius, who had been fostered on Pyke with his Greyjoy kin for much of his childhood, had seen nothing wrong with his less than knightly tactics. It was said that the Iron Islands bred cruel men, and had Jojen wondered aloud at how much of a Lion Thaddius truly was, with his mother's Kraken blood running through his veins.

They had come to blows at that remark, and with Jojen's brother Edmure still sleeping off his drunken stupor and Thaddius' brother Damon already on his way back to Casterly Rock, there had been no one to separate the two of them. Therefore, they brawled until they hadn't had any strength or breath left to fight, and collapsed panting in the dirt with foolish smiles on their faces, having earned a certain satisfaction in beating each other bloody that the tourney had not provided.

That was when they'd had their second argument: who owed whom a drink. The matter had been easily settled with a truce, and they had made their way to Lord Harroway's Town promptly, slipping some of the remaining bottles of Dornish red from a dozing Lord Edmure's tent and drinking them along the road as they went, laughing and telling tales, each taller than the last.

Thaddius had spoken of the wights he had killed at the Rainwood, and Jojen spoke of his bedroom conquests. The more they drank, the more freely their tongues had wagged until Thaddius had revealed that Aeslyn Targaryen had given him her favor and that he was therefore now indubitably, immeasurably, and irrecoverably head over heels in love with her. He'd further admitted, after several prying questions from Jojen and long gulps of liquid courage, that he had never before laid with a woman, so terrified was he of breaking his vows to the Kingsguard or disappointing his father.

At that, Jojen had swore that he would make it his life's goal to see Thaddius bedded, "tonight!" of course, and with the most beautiful woman in all of the Riverlands, "assuming that she is in one of these taverns, here." With that promise at the forefront of his mind, he had led the young Lannister into the nearest winesink.

What happened after that was less clear, Jojen was realizing as he awoke wet and groggy on the muddy ground outside an unfamiliar looking tavern.

"Oh, it's you, Lannister," he said, looking up at the golden haired knight. "Where is your shirt?"

"There's no need to yell, Jojen," The Lannister replied through gritted teeth.

_He must be feeling just as sore as I am, _Jojen thought as he saw the man press a hand to his temple.

"I was hoping you might know." Thaddius continued, "Perhaps it's in the same place as yours."

"I'm not yelling," Jojen protested, pushing himself into a sitting position lazily. It was still raining steadily, but he was already soaked to the bone and saw no point in rushing. "You're the one who's roaring, Lion. What were we drinking last night, strongwine? Is this some mischief of yours, Lannister? Did you do something to my drinks?"

"Me? Quit your howling, wolf cunt," Thaddius seemed as though he was about to string on a few more insults, but instead he hunched over and turned to the side to vomit.

"Ugh, disgusting," Jojen looked away, making a face. "What happened, Lannister? My mind is still foggy. Did I swing at you with a sword last night?"

"I don't remember, wolf," Thaddius replied, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "I don't remember a thing…" he paused suddenly and looked around. "Where in the seven hells are we and why is there so much mess everywhere? And why are the people looking at us like that?"

A few passerby were eying the two strangers warily, whispering and pointing.

"I have no idea where we are," Jojen shook his head, still seated on the ground, unconcerned about the puddle of rainwater and dirt he was seated in. "But I see a tavern there, and the only cure for too much drink is more drink."

Thaddius shuddered at the suggestion, but reached down and offered Jojen his hand. When he went to help him to his feet he lost his footing, stumbling and falling directly on top of the Stark. There was an uncomfortable moment as Jojen found their faces closer together than he'd expected they'd ever be, and they each mumbled some excuses and insults to ease the tension. It took a few more attempts before they were both on their feet, but they eventually headed into the tavern, only to find the place completely ransacked and deserted.

"I wonder where everyone has gone," Thaddius remarked, scratching his head. "It looks like someone came through and trashed the place."

"Ah, it does, doesn't it?" Jojen agreed with a frown, as some foggy memories began to surface: memories of a tavern much like this, broken glass, an argument, and a brawl. "Well, I suppose that means that these drinks are on the house."

He strode over to the bar and reached behind the counter, removing two rusted tankards and setting them on a table. Thaddius found a pair of chairs that survived whatever storm swept through the winesink, and dragged them over for each of them.

Jojen pushed one of the tankards across the table to Thaddius and then leaned back in his seat to stretch. His shirtless body was soaking wet and the muscles in his chest glistened though streaked with mud.

"Is it hot in here?" Thaddius asked, rubbing at the back of his neck."I'm not sure what happened last night," he added hurriedly, "We were at the tourney, and there was the melee, and you accused me of cheating, and we fought, and then we came here and we drank and then… Well, then I woke up outside, half disrobed and with you."

Jojen shifted awkwardly in his chair beneath Thaddius' gaze. _Why is he just staring at me? What is he looking at?_ He felt his face flush and he reached for his drink, eager for something with which to occupy himself.

"Right, Lannister, well, I believe we were looking for a maiden for you," he said. "I remember arguing, and then you hit me in the face, and then we were buying each other drinks."

He set down his mug and reached for the spot under his shoulder where Ulrich's lance had struck him in the joust. The wound still ached, and now it was caked in mud, dirt, and dried blood. "I have no idea where our shirts went."

"Is it bothering you?" Thaddius asked.

"Is what? Your staring?"

"Your wound."

"Oh, right. Of course," Jojen reddened. "Ah, no, it's fine. It's nothing, really. I've had far worse."

He felt naked beneath the Lannister's gaze. Thaddius' had his father's eyes, as green as emeralds but as sharp as steel. _Beautiful, really,_ Jojen thought, then,_ Did I really just think that?_

"I remember sitting in this tavern," Thaddius said slowly, a smile growing on his face. "You were telling me about how you admired my bladework, and that you could see why people call me the Warrior reincarnate, the most handsome man in Westeros, with a body chiseled out the Rock of Casterly Rock itself and hair spun like gold and-"

Jojen burst out laughing at the jape, knocking over his mug in the process. His ale spilled and ran across the table, straight onto his companion's lap. Thaddius jumped and Jojen quickly scrambled to find a rag.

"I'm so sorry, Thad, I just- I feel so stupid, that was an accident..."

His search was fruitless, and he stood and hopelessly looked about the messy tavern before leaning down and tearing a piece of cloth from his trousers with which to wipe up the mess.

"I apologize, I wasn't paying attention," he moved to Thaddius' side quickly and without thinking began dabbing and wiping at the spilled ale on his lap.

"Jojen, what are you doing?" Thaddius asked with a confused frown, grabbing the Stark by the wrist.

Jojen seemed to realize all at once exactly what he was doing, and his face turned nearly as red as his hair. "I, uh, I was, uh, I just-"

"You called me Thad," the knight grinned, still clutching a frozen and rather humiliated Jojen by the arm. "My brother is the only one who ever calls me that. Everyone else says Ser Lannister, or Ser Thaddius, and you always just say Lannister or Lion."

"I, um… I suppose I do. I mean I suppose I did. I do. I guess."

_Gods, what is wrong with you, Jojen?!_

"Well, you always call me Stark, or wolf, or 'wolf cunt,' so there's that," Jojen pointed out, giving an awkward sort of half-laugh. "Did I surprise you, Ser Thaddius? We wolf cunts can be rather unpredictable."

"Unpredictable, you say?" Thaddius did not release his wrist, but there was a glint of playfulness in his emerald eyes.

_Such beautiful eyes…_

"Yes, unpredictable. I always strike when my prey is at unawares."

"Are you planning on striking me, Jojen?"

The knight's brilliant green eyes seemed to grow bigger, and that was when Jojen realized that their faces had been moving closer and closer together.

"Might be that I am, Thad."

All at once, Jojen's lips were on his, and Thaddius' hands were tangled in the wet and unruly auburn hair of a Stark. And in the empty and ransacked tavern that the two had destroyed the night before, though they did not remember, the Wolf and the Lion found themselves spending a day they would never forget.

**\- THE TOWER'S SERVANT -**

It was late at night when a large, shrouded supply cart rumbled through the main gates of Oldtown. The cart was flanked by guards cloaked in gray. The few townspeople who saw it enter paid it no mind. The only thing curious about its arrival was the time of night. Usually supply runs took place during the day, but with the growing tension between the Hightowers and Tyrells, the people had become accustomed to Lord Gylen's peculiar decisions.

Suspicion would have been most appropriate in this case, however. The cart jolted and traveled down the cobblestone streets of Oldtown, all the way to the Hightower. Once it approached the gates, every precaution was taken before opening the carriage and removing its cargo - a large crate made of wood.

The guards attached the crate to a hoist in the center of the tower, for the purpose of moving equipment, supplies, and other heavy items from floor to floor. This shipment went nearly all the way to the top, stopping only before the floor where the massive pyre lighting the top of the Hightower was held.

The crate was finally brought to a room - a lavish one, with a nice bed, a wardrobe, and a view of Oldtown though thick, iron bars. On a table sat a single yellow rose in a glass jar, already wilting. The crate was carefully opened, and the unconscious body of Maude Tyrell was lifted and rested on the bed by guards who vanished as quickly as they had appeared.

When she opened her eyes, it was sunlight that streamed through the windows instead of the moon's glow. Maude sat up carefully, blinking confusedly at the unfamiliar room it was illuminating, and that's when Nalla figured she had best say hello.

"M'lady," the servant girl managed an awed whisper. She was ten and one, and this was the first time she'd ever seen a member of the Tyrell house so close. Nalla was a stout girl, with dull brown hair that her mother pulled back tightly in a knot behind her head each morning, and big doe eyes that had a habit of making her always appear frightened. Her body was square and ungainly and her calves were thick from a childhood spent hauling water up and down the stairs of the Hightower.

The captive's journey had left her bedraggled. Her once perfectly pressed gown of pale blue silk was wrinkled, and some of the fine gold stitching on its hem had come undone. The pile of twisted braids atop her head was now a tangled mess, but Nalla looked at Maude as if she were beholding a goddess.

"Who are you?" Maude's voice was surprisingly sharp for a woman with such soft features, and it cut into Nalla like cold steel. _"Where am I!?"_

"Old… Oldtown, m'lady," Nalla said, taken aback by the harshness of the lady's tone, her own voice quivering. "This is the Hightower."

"Oldtown?" Maude repeated, scrunching up her pretty face in confusion and disgust, "And why am I in Oldtown? Who has brought me here? What is the meaning of this?"

"I...I…"

_I am supposed to empty your chamberpot, I have no idea why in the seven hells you are here…_

"Speak, girl! Are you simple?"

"No, m'lady. I just… I don't know how to answer your questions, is all," Nalla glanced back and forth between the floor and the lady, her face flushed.

Maude looked around the room slowly, her golden brown eyes scanning over the polished furniture, the delicate tapestries, the iron bars on the windows and the single wilting rose in a vase on a stained oak table.

She rose from the bed slowly, running her palms over the wrinkled folds of her skirts. Nalla clutched the wine pitcher in her hands tightly, unsure of what she should do or say. She hadn't spent much time around noble women. Though she had been in the service of Lord Gylen Hightower since she was but seven, she had always tended to the kitchens, or to prisoners. She had never seen a highborn prisoner in the Hightower before, and the rare women who found themselves behind bars in the castle were certainly of no noble stock.

Maude took small steps to reach the table, and Nalla noted how she held her back straight and rigid with her shoulders drawn back and her head held high. She reached out and touched the rose in the vase gently, and a dried yellow petal fell softly onto the table.

_She looks just like a queen… _

"What are you looking at?" Maude asked, turning her sharp gaze back to Nalla.

_Stop staring at her._

She quickly glanced at the ground.

"M'lady, if there's anything that you need while you are in Hightower, you need only ask and I shall-"

"While I am at Hightower?" Maude repeated, tilting her head and eying the child with confused disdain. "Am I on holiday here, is that it? Spare me your pleasantries, girl, I am a prisoner here and we both know it." She waved a hand at the barred windows, never once looking away from Nalla. "You may bring me food and drink while I await my father and my brothers to come to my rescue, but I will not abide the company of some lowborn serving girl. Do you know who I am?"

Nalla heard a soft sloshing sound and realized that her hands were shaking a bit and the wine in the carafe was splashing. She stared down into the pitcher as she spoke, for it was easier than looking at the woman in the room with her angry glare. The wine was pink like the lady's cheeks, a rosy blush, and swished about the glass due to the unsteadiness of her hands.

"You are Lady Maude Tyrell," she answered, surprised at how even her voice sounded.

She had not expected the beautiful woman to speak so shortly. Nalla always imagined highborn women as gentle and kind, but while Maude was no doubt as nobly born as they came, the contempt she held in her eyes as she looked down her perfectly straight nose at the servant girl was obvious.

"That's right, child," Maude answered. "I am a lady of Highgarden, to whom your master's House swears fealty."

"I'm a servant, not a slave," Nalla replied sharply. "I don't have a _master_."

It was hard to say who was more startled by the remark, Maude or Nalla herself, but the serving girl's eyes grew even wider in her head and her mouth snapped shut.

"Clearly you don't realize who it is you address, child," Maude said icily. "Not only am I a lady of House Tyrell… I am the future Queen of Westeros."

A smile played at her lips, and she arched her eyebrow slightly. "The King intends to ask me for my hand in marriage. It won't be just my brothers and my father who march on your lord's walls to rescue me from this tower. It will be the gallant King Harys Baratheon himself who comes riding on his white destrier with a crown of gold atop his head, garbed in his shining steel armor and wielding his greatsword.

"He will put this castle and all of Oldtown to the torch once I am seated on his horse in front of him, and it won't matter if you're a servant or a slave then, you will die like the rest of the Hightower scum."

She gave a haughty "hmpth," satisfied with her scolding, and crossed the room to look out the window, as if King Harys might be riding up to the gates of the city that very instant.

"Fetch me a bath, girl," she called over her shoulder. "I will want to look beautiful for when my King arrives."

Nalla gazed at the woman framed in the barred window, standing tall and proud despite her matted hair and disheveled clothing.

_Just like a queen._

"My mother always said that a woman's real beauty is in how she treats others," the servant girl said.

With that, she set the pitcher down on the table near the threshold and walked briskly from the room, pulling the heavy iron door shut behind her.

**\- THE MASTER -**

Everyone had their object, the apple of their eye, the love of their life. Most had common ones, a family heirloom, a reminder of a lover long gone, even a piece of clothing touched by royalty. The object would be just short of worshiped, turning seven gods into eight until some tragedy inevitably ruined the treasured item.

Rymar Royce wasn't like most people, as the realm was far more ambitious an object than the common person would dare hold so close. He tended to it like an obsessed, heart broken young knight polishing both of his swords, making sure every detail of it was perfect. He cared for the realm, watched over it and kept it set in order. When he had to, he would scrape the tarnish off of it, for the good of the rest, no matter their position.

The Master of Whisperers was no stranger to Mockingbirds. They fluttered into his room often, spoke their words, and left again for Harrenhal. They would leave letters, and Rymar in turn would give them gifts of rare poisons, the tiniest gleam of information on a larger map, and shoves needed to push the realm towards his goal.

Emmon Baelish was, of course, quite mad. Delusions of grandeur and nostalgia for a time long passed had placed him into the shoes of the last truly great Baelish, and he delighted in playing the same games as his ancestor but with notably less finesse. The Mockingbirds had grown into a powerful house, a relic of the time of turmoil and chaos that had given them power. A ridiculously unjumped house, their neighbors to the east, the Arryns, were perhaps as far as one could get to being an exact opposite, and were already disapproving of the Mockingbird.

So of course James Arryn had to be killed by Emmon Baelish.

It hadn't been that blatant of course. A nudge there, a push there, paint it cleverly and tell the Mockingbird it was his own idea and he would snatch it up no matter the repercussions. A little hint of intrigue, the vague promise of additional power, and obtuse allusions to his ancestor had been more than enough to send the man scrambling to find the proper poison. Rymar had made sure to make it a gift, and then he sat back and watched as a tourney grew around Harrenhal.

The mockingbird had sent a letter in the middle of the tournament, one that the Master of Whisperers devoured eagerly. It was short and dramatic, exactly Emmon's style.

"Lord Royce," it began in flowering handwriting that would've been enough for an entire letter in normal script, "It is done. Our falcon friend's feathers have been plucked."

Rymar leaned back in his chair, read over the letter, and tossed it into the fire. Now the game would truly begin.

**\- THADDIUS -**

"It was those scheming Hightowers, Your Grace," Lord Baelor sputtered in rageful tones. "They took her! I know they did! My daughter Mellara heard him whispering to the Dornish Prince at your court. That Gylen has been lusting after my seat for decades, who else would seek such harm against my house and my child?!"

Ser Thaddius Lannister watched as Baelor Tyrell stood staring up at his king on the Iron Throne with a mad fury in his eyes. The knight tried to keep a stone face, as was expected of any member of the Kingsguard, but inwardly he felt disinterested, and a little sleepy, too.

Maude Tyrell had disappeared from the Red Keep and the days that ensued had been chaos as fingers were pointed at nearly every house in the realm, big and small. Rumors abounded about the King's intention to marry the Tyrell girl, and so any number of enemies to the throne could have found cause to abscond with her. But Harys only ever listened to the counsel of a few men, and those men all saw only one culprit.

The consensus seemed to be that Hightower was behind the abduction, as they were the most powerful of all the Reach houses and Lord Baelor and Lord Gylen had a personal feud that went back decades - too long for someone as apathetic as Thaddius to even remember what the root of it was.

It had been the most eventful week at the Red Keep that Thaddius had ever experienced, and yet still he was bored. Serving in the Kingsguard was the highest honor that a knight could hope to attain, and being accepted into the elite group of warriors at such a young age was more impressive still, but the second Lannister son found little love for his duty, or rather as he saw it, his life sentence.

_I should never have let Damon talk me into this_, he thought to himself for at least the hundredth time that month. "Join the Kingsguard," his brother had said. "Let them teach you a thing or two about restraint and honor," he had said.

_As if Damon knows a damned thing about honor…_

Thaddius shifted his weight from one stiff foot to the other and gave a small sigh, earning a reproachful glare from Ser Jaime Florent, the Lord Commander.

"He probably took her back to Oldtown!" Lord Baelor declared, spittle flying from his mouth as he raged on, oblivious to the disinterested Kingsguard in his midst.

_And why would he notice me?_ Thaddius thought. _I am just a wall, as much a part of the scenery as the columns in the throne room or the tapestries in the great hall. _

King Harys, like all Baratheons, had never been famous for his wit; his strength with a blade was what earned him his renown. He was quick to violence, and his response to Lord Baelor showed it.

"You must be right…" the Stag said at last, his knuckles white as he gripped the arms of the Iron Throne angrily. "Oldtown will feel our wrath… We march on the morrow. I want three thousand men from the Crownlands, and see who my brother can send from Dragonstone."

That caught Thaddius' attention.

_Finally, a chance to kill something_, he thought eagerly.

It felt like ages since the Rainwood, and Thaddius' sword arm itched for combat. He didn't feel alive unless he were fighting, as he tried to explain countless times to his older brother whenever Damon lectured him for being "overzealous" with the prisoners at Casterly Rock or "heavy-handed" in dealing with bandits in the woods north of Crakehall.

"Nothing gets my blood flowing like sending that of others spilling," he had told the Rock's heir with a grin, but Damon never seemed to understand him and always gave that same look of quiet apprehension and thinly veiled disapproval in reply.

_He's just jealous_, Thaddius knew, _Because father loves me best._

The oldest Lannister had always been his mother's son, Eddrick Lannet liked to recall. He'd been her shadow until she died on the birthing bed when Ashara was born. Thaddius, however, could do no wrong in Loren Lannister's eyes. Yet his brother's rarer praise meant more to the young kingsguard than he liked to acknowledge, and so that was why the white cloak hung about his shoulders now as he stood in the Red Keep listening to the King plot to steal back his kidnapped Rose.

"Your Grace…" Lord Rymar Royce, Master of Whispers, interrupted Harys gently. "Is it wise to march on Oldtown with so few men? Lord Hightower commands many times that number, and is not a lord to be taken lightly when it comes to prowess in battle." The bald man spoke gently, but his face was wrought with concern. The runes tattooed on his arms were visible with the sleeves of his robes rolled up.

Ser Jaime Florent narrowed his eyes at the council member. "We have no proof of any conspiracy surrounding the disappearance of the Lady Maude, and certainly nothing that points to Lord Gylen Hightower. His is one of the wealthiest houses in the realm; it would not be wise to sour relations so brashly."

Thaddius tried not to roll his eyes. Ser Florent might be the dullest thing in all of King's Landing. They called him the "Fox" but Thaddius saw nothing cunning about a man who spent most of his days following the King around and standing in the corner while he feasted.

_It's easier to move a mountain to action than Jaime Florent,_ he thought with disdain. _If the man were on fire he would call a council to discuss it before fetching any water._

King Harys glared down at the spymaster, "You have heard no whispers, Lord Rymar?" he asked accusingly, "Perhaps you are not fit for your station, then."

Lord Rymar's mouth tightened, but he bowed his head apologetically and said in honeyed tones, "Your Grace, I serve the realm with all my heart, yet I am but a man, as capable as erring as any other. I have heard no truths surrounding the disappearance of Lady Maude, only rumors. As such, I cannot offer you facts, only my counsel."

King Harys continued to scowl at the Master of Whisperers. Lord Rymar had always offered good advice in the past. He encouraged the King's lavish spending, gave his blessing for the winter time feasts and tournaments that Harys liked to hold, and let the King know that his lord paramounts were ever loyal despite any courtroom gossip. In fact, Lord Rymar Royce was one of the few people who defended Harys' recent decision to appoint Alester Targaryen as Hand of the King.

The move had come to a surprise to everyone, Thaddius not least of all. As a child, Alester was kept as a ward by King Renly Baratheon at King's Landing in order to keep the Targaryen House in line. While there, Alester and Renly's son Harys became fast friends, forming a bond that lasted into Harys' own reign.

_A typical Dragon,_ Thaddius thought. _As haughty as they come._

He hadn't interacted much with Targaryen ward, but disliked the man's smug smile and his arrogant demeanor all the same. Alester strode about the castle with an air of grandiose, as if it were his own keep and not his prison.

The decision to appoint him as Hand was shocking to the various high lords, many of whom had approached Harys directly to champion their own name. They were insulted by the King's choice, and the mood in the capital had been tense ever since the announcement.

_You invite your friends to your feasts, you don't sit them on your small council,_ Thaddius' father would have said. Loren Lannister's own council at Casterly Rock was composed of men from all over the Westerlands, as opposed to Harys Baratheon's assorted collection of family members and drinking chums.

The entertaining council meetings were one of the the aspects of life at Casterly Rock that Thaddius missed most, though perhaps his brother's relationship with their father wouldn't be so rocky if Damon didn't spend half the meetings making japes and trying to raise Loren's ire. The Warden of the West was notoriously poised, and was never one to break a gaze. The heir only seemed to see that as a challenge, and more than once he was ordered to leave a counsel session midway through, for making Thaddius laugh or abusing the wine pitcher.

Thaddius could still recall with ease the time that the highborn envoy from House Crakehall came to bear testimony for a dispute between Lords Willum Prester and Polliver Lydden. Damon had made some remark about the man's daughter which, while earning a few stifled laughs from others in attendance, caused the man to erupt into a string of curses and a rant about how the Lannister heir was bound to instate a House of Debauchery in place of his proud family's name.

Damon retorted with some sort of jab at the man's sigil, telling him not to take his coat of arms to heart and that no one should _truly_ be such a "complete bore." Thaddius found the comment very amusing but Loren Lannister's steely gaze of displeasure was as hard as the Rock itself, and after the matter was settled he spoke to his oldest son privately for what seemed like an eternity.

Thaddius waited patiently all the while, eagerly hoping for details from the scolding, but Damon was mum as always, offering only a shrug, a faint smile, and a complaint that their father had no sense of humor. The heir insisted that the lectures meant nothing to him, but Damon's shoulders always slumped a little lower after leaving their father's solar.

"And what is your counsel then, Lord Rymar?" King Harys asked the Master of Whisperers as he looked at the small balding man with derision, wakening Thaddius from his daydream.

_Gods, they're still discussing this?_

"How many men would you have me march to Oldtown?"

Thaddius quickly brought his attention back to the King and the Master.

_Look alive_, he scolded himself in his father's voice. _This is the part that matters._

Lord Rymar tilted his head and gave a small smile as he replied.

"Why, all of them."

**\- DANAE -**

The sun was high when Danae Targaryen and James Rivers walked into the forest of Sharp Point to the small enclosed stone barrier where the Targaryens had hidden their dragons.

When James pushed the gate open, they were met with the loud, reverberating sound of dragon screams. A winged creature flew toward Danae, but was snapped back to the ground by chains, letting loose another screech.

Persion had scales of pearly white and his horns, spinal crest, eyes, and wing bones were gold, as well as his flame. He was around the size of a large dog and once she unchained him he climbed willingly into her oversized luggage where he snuggled down amongst her clothing.

The dragon's nature was calm, almost lazy in fact, as he had lived secluded in the barrier for so long and had been coddled by Danae and her father both. Many an afternoon the two had spent in the garden, throwing the little beast scraps of meat and watching delightedly as he cooked them in his own breath in seconds before swallowing them whole.

Danae smiled at the memories of her father as she stroked and talked to the dragon. Another shriek interrupted her thoughts, however, and she finally took note of Caelon, her sister's dragon, still chained and rather unhappy about it.

She looked longingly at Aeslyn's beast. Caelon was much larger than Persion, with black scales and tanned markings.

"What good to us will Caelon be when she's handed to the Lannisters?" she said aloud. "I have no way to take her with me, but I can't leave her here. Aeslyn will let her starve."

Danae turned to look back at James as he stood in the doorway. His eyes were wide and apprehensive and his mouth hung halfway open in shock. Dragons had not been seen in Westeros by any eyes other than Targaryen's in over two hundred years.

"We can't take that one with us," he spoke finally. "I don't even know how we'll hide the one that you have."

Aeslyn's dragon was the largest of the three that had been passed down from her grandparents, but she was also the least intelligent and the most violent. Danae approached her cautiously in order to unlock the chains from her neck. As she drew closer, the dragon screamed in panic and raised her wings in an attempt to fly. Danae hurriedly stepped back as Caelon unleashed a short burst of black fire from her fearsome jaws.

"What has Aeslyn done to you?" Danae whispered in shock as she and James stood and watched the dragon beat its wings in agitation and fear.

"Danae," James spoke quietly, as if out reverence toward the beasts, "She'll snap her neck trying to escape from those chains. Sharp Point will be abandoned after we leave. Perhaps we can use a longer chain to place her outside. She'll be able to hunt on her own at least."

Danae frowned and stood in thought for several minutes. Finally she approached Caelon softly and spoke quiet, gentle words as the dragon's black eyes watched her warily. She reached out to touch black scales and felt the heat from the dragon's body rising against her fingers. Danae cooed quietly and unlocked the dragon's chains.

The sounds of rustling metal created another panic and Caelon opened her jaws, dark smoke erupting from the dragon's nostrils as she snapped at Danae. The Targaryen leapt back but Caelon lunged again and this time her small teeth nicked the skin of Danae's upper arm. The dragon reared and shook her head wildly to and fro before she attempted to coil and attack Danae again, her great black wings beating the air and sending forth gusts of wind.

James drew his blade but Danae screamed in protest.

"_No!"_

Suddenly a burst of golden fire and a loud scream filled the small room as Persion spread his wings in freedom for the first time. He flew toward Caelon and wrapped his jaws around her long, serpentine neck. The distraction gave Danae time to run to James and they stood to watch the dragons dance in fire and the fury of snapping teeth.

Heat from the flames pressed against James and Danae and they stepped quickly back toward the door. Caelon was larger, but she appeared afraid to move despite her chains being unlocked and lying on the ground. Years of Aeslyn's harsh words and abuse kept the dragon grounded in fear and paralyzed as Persion flew around her with his jaws snapping madly. Finally, Caelon cowered into submission as Danae found her voice and screamed her dragon's name.

"_Persion!"_

He flew back to her feet at once, suddenly docile, and nudged her with his head. Spots of blood began to seep through Danae's dress where Caelon had nicked her skin. James grabbed the luggage and pulled it outside as Danae watched Aeslyn's dragon coil itself into a trembling mound of fear.

She turned and walked outside as Persion and James followed closely behind, the dragon gliding lazily above them and the water dancer shooting wary glances over his shoulder as they walked, beginning the trek back up to the small holdfast at Sharp Point. They left the gate to the enclosed area open, though the Targaryen did not expect Caelon to emerge any time soon.

"It will take that one weeks to figure out she is unchained and able to go outside," Danae spoke quietly. "I imagine she'll be driven out by starvation. If she survives, I doubt she'll travel very far."

"We'll be miles away at that point," James replied as he watched Persion curiously. "She's none of your concern now, Danae. Leave any troubles she may bring for Aeslyn to clean up."

"His reaction to Caelon yesterday at least gives me some hope that he may serve some purpose for us."

Before James could reply, a silhouette appeared on the path ahead of them. Danae stopped at once.

"That's her," James said.

"And you certain she can be trusted?" Danae replied, glancing warily ahead as the figure drew closer. Persion seemed to take no interest as he circled above his master calmly.

"I've already spoken to her," James said, a smile spreading across his face. "Trust me; you're going to like this one."

Danae had no time to reply before the stranger was upon them.

Summer Steelsong was long and lithe with caramel skin, golden hair, and bright green eyes. A sword hung from her hip, sheathed in a worn scabbard, and her smile was inviting as she approached.

"You must be Lady Danae Targaryen," she said, giving a bow. "I am Summer Steelsong, at your service."

Danae looked upon the pretty waterdancer with curiosity and a bit of surprise.

_A female sellsword… _she thought, smiling inwardly. _James knows me well._

"Walk with us," Danae said, her tone firm and authoritative. "Tell me about yourself."

Summer took a long look at the dragon overhead and for a moment it seemed as though she hadn't heard the question. After a pause, she managed to peel her eyes away from the beast and she fell into step alongside the two.

"Not much to say, m'lady," she began. "My father was a former hedge knight from the Westerlands and my mother was a Dornish whore. I was born on a ship as my mother crossed the Narrow Sea to seek her fortune in Essos. Much of my time in Braavos as a child was spent learning to waterdance from a young Braavosi I befriended, and eventually from the master who took me on as an apprentice."

Summer shrugged, still smiling, "I've explored, eavesdropped, discovered secrets, frequented places I did not belong, and picked pockets. In time, my father discovered he had a daughter and when I was fourteen my mother sent me to Westeros. My father, Ser Prentiss the Valiant, had by then earned a small keep in the peaceful lands of the Reach for defending a lord's heir from bandits."

She tapped the sword sheathed at her hip and smiled. "It was there he gave me the name Steelsong, when he saw me defeat a fellow knight. I soon found myself in the service of House Dayne of Starfall, and it was after many letters from Grand Maester Orin that Lord Martyn Dayne allowed me to come assist you on your journey."

Danae wasn't sure how to respond. Throughout her own life, the Targaryen had been exposed to few women beyond the wives of the merchants her father had traded with. None of the women seemed to have any control over their lives, and few had even traveled outside of the Crownlands. Yet here before her now sat a woman who had chosen her own path of adventure.

Danae found herself smiling.

"And I'm so very glad you're here."

**\- THE LION'S DAUGHTER -**

Bloodstone was a hard place, Ashara knew. Pirate Kings and lords had held it as their dens in years gone by, and great battles were fought there during the Wars of the Ninepenny Kings. From the ship she could see it bustling with hushed anticipation,from the great fortress harbor of Homeward Bound to the streets of Burntbone, where her maester had told her that Aegon VI was laid to rest.

Hard place or no, it had been a long, arduous voyage, and Ashara was glad when the_ Lion's Roar_ glided into port. She watched from the rail next to her father, Lord Loren Lannister, and a retinue of several lesser knights as the harbour grew closer.

Ashara was a small thing at sixteen, with long golden hair that fell in ringlets past her shoulders. Her eyes were a deep green and looked out across the harbor curiously framed by thick, feminine lashes.

"Which lords will be here for the council?" she asked, her voice as soft and delicate as her face.

Lord Loren did not so much as glance at her. A rider was fast approaching the docks as the ship drew close.

"We'll soon see."

The Lannister's flag ship was a proud vessel, and its massive size seemed to impress the Lorathi Sell-Sails greatly. Ashara overheard a captain try to beg the purchase of the Roaring Lion before he noticed the Lannister guards in steel and red cloaks.

The youngest lion didn't recognize the man who rode to meet them at Homeward Bound. He was queer looking, with short cropped silver hair and two mismatched eyes - one watery green and the other gray. His presence made her feel ill at ease, but she did not show it as she stood beside her father and watched him dismount.

Loren addressed the man as Varyo Velaryon and after exchanging courtesies, he led the Lannisters to a covered carriage which was to bring them to the castle. Ashara gently pushed aside the sheer lavender curtains and gazed out the window as they rode over the bumpy and cobbled streets.

_Such an alien place._

Most of the people she saw were not Westerosi, and foreign languages filled the air. The carriage traveled down the main road, exposing the young girl to strangeness and unfamiliarity at every bend and turn.

When they finally reached the holdfast and the stranger led them up the winding staircase of one its towers to a rounded council room, Ashara's initial uneasiness was replaced with curiosity. Already in the chamber were grizzled sellsword captains, well dressed lords from noble Westerosi houses, two Lyscene courtesans, and servants with bronze skin. They were all conversing amongst themselves and Ashara was relieved to recognize the sounds of the common tongue.

When the men took note of Lord Loren Lannister and his daughter in the threshold, the conversation tapered off and all eyes turned to face the new arrivals. The last to look up was the man at the head of the table.

He was olive skinned, with dark brown hair and eyes of a rich chestnut color with just the slightest traces of violet, perhaps even red. He was broad of shoulders, and looked to be around seven and twenty years old. He stared out across the table at Ashara and the Warden of the West with a smug smile on his not altogether unhandsome face.

"Pray be seated, my lord and lady," Varyo broke the silence, gesturing to two empty seats nearby. "I'd assume you have questions."

The men seated around the great oaken table exchange glances as Lord Loren pulled a chair out first for Ashara, the only woman in the room apart from the courtesans, and she sat down quietly and smoothed out the folds in her scarlet sleeves were tight around her arms but widened at her hands, flaring out and embroidered with glittery gold stitching.

The Lord of Casterly Rock sat down beside her. He was also garbed in crimson, and the colors of House Lannister stood out almost forebodingly in the now crowded council room, serving as a dark reminder of just how high the stakes of this meeting were.

_These people fear my father_, she thought to herself, staring at each of their faces in turn. Old men, young men, lords and warriors, men with gray beards and deep lines on their faces and scars underneath their tunics of boiled leather… men with silver broaches and soft hands that had never pushed a plow or wiped sweat from a dirty forehead after a long day's work… They eyed the Lord of the wealthiest house in all of Westeros with a combination of apprehension and begrudging reverence.

Lord Loren placed a gold coin on the table, the upwards side showing a bearded king with a head on his shoulder.

"We've come for your promises," he said coolly, "Perhaps you would do well to explain yourself."

Ashara brought her gaze from the coin to Varyo as he took a deep breath and dabbed at his discolored eye, still standing somewhat awkwardly apart from the table.

"My lords and ladies, you all know too well that war is overdue. You all know too well the follies of King Harys. The Stag is in bed with the Rose, and the realm stinks of folly. It only remains to be decided when the war shall come. I have brought you here to tell you that the time is today, and now!"

Varyo gestured towards the man at the head of the table with the olive skin.

"You see before you Aerion, of the House Blackfyre, first of his name," Varyo introduced. "Rightful King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men. The King with the Sword and the Last True Dragon! With your leave, Loren, your daughter Ashara shall marry Aerion; we shall crown them King and Queen at the Rock. The Lords of Westeros will rise for their rightful king and then we shall crush the forces of the Stag and Rose alike."

Ashara's face betrayed nothing and her father's emerald eyes were hard.

"Last true dragon? Forgive me, my lords, I did not realize this to be a farce."

Loren Lannister looked around the table slowly as he spoke, and men averted their eyes when they felt his icy gaze upon them.

"A dragon in King's Landing, a dragon at the Wall, a dragon flirting with the men at court… No, there are many dragons, and many with a better claim."

Varyo smiled a sly smile, like a man noting a fish take the bait. He leaned in closer to the Lord of Casterly Rock.

"You see those fair ladies there, my lord?"

He indicated two beautiful Lyscene women, giggling towards the back of the room. Ashara watched as they posed and fluttered, batting thick eyelashes and winking at some of the men seated around the table. They were were called courtesans and masters of the seven sighs in the Free Cities, but Ashara knew what her father would call them.

"Would you deny that they were blood of the dragon?" Varyo asked. "Are their eyes not as purple as our esteemed lord hand? Is their hair not as silver spun as the dragon at the court? These two girls are whores, my lord, as common as pig shit. Well trained? Yes. Fair? Yes, but simple smallfolk through and through."

Varyo began to slowly walk around the room, his hand grazing the backs of the chairs the noblemen were seated in.

"These two girls swear the dragons at court are their siblings. They were plucked from a Lyscene brothel at so tender an age by our noble king, told they were dragon blood. As for the truth of the matter? Well, they say that those left standing write the tales."

Loren's mouth tightened in what passed for a smile, something Ashara rarely saw.

"Perhaps I was too quick to judge, Master Velaryon," he replied.

"High praise, my lord."

"I've said this before and I'll say it again," a new voice spoke at last. Ashara turned to see Lord Gylen Hightower of the Reach speaking. Even if he didn't wear a silver pendant with his house's sigil pinned to his plain gray doublet, she would have recognized his thick bushy mustache anywhere.

"The Blackfyres are nothing but history long passed. They are forgotten; the last to rise was over three hundred years ago. Why should we believe this is a Blackfyre heir? And why should we believe any lords will wish to support him besides those that have joined us here?"

Varyo had clearly anticipated this question.

"As for the lords, I have a Bolton and a Manderly on the way. They will go with the Bright Banners and Maiden's men with the swords still here and raise what they can from the North. They should at least keep the Starks occupied, and hopefully scorch the land between White Harbour and the Wolfswood. Lord Orys Connington is securing loyalties south of the capital. They should be able to pin down the forces in the Stormlands." He paused and raised an eyebrow at the Lord from Oldtown. "And the legitimacy? Well, I believe I've proven to Lord Loren already what that is worth."

"I care not for his legitimacy," Gylen snapped. "I care what it means to the lords of Westeros and the Smallfolk. If this pact binds me to the Golden Company and the Lannisters and if it earns me the Reach, I will consider it. I simply doubt your potential outside this room. The Stormlands could turn cloaks, but Dorne is ambiguous. I may be able to convince the Prince, but it is not assured. I care little for the North or the Riverlands, but both will be difficult to control even with all our forces combined. Excuse my worries, but I have my own plots, and I simply do not wish to put them to waste for false promises."

His moustache twitched as he spoke, and Ashara smiled inwardly but kept her face relaxed and composed. People always said that she had her father's poise, and that compliment was worth a hundred of the ones she heard regularly regarding her beauty.

She noted with great pride that she was able to recognize the majority of the lords in the room. Her oldest brother had a gift for remembering names and faces, and she could hear Damon's voice in her head describing each and every one of them.

"A slippery sneak," she recalled him saying about Macewood Rowan, seated to her left. He had a sour look about him, with a narrow face and a nose that was too long for it. "Lord Baelor Tyrell sent his brother to the Wall for trying to hire swords from Essos, and Macewood has wanted to put a dagger in his back ever since."

Curly haired Corliss Caron was present as well. He was one of the younger men in the room and proudly wore his cloak of yellow speckled with black nightingales, though other lords that Ashara recognized chose not to don their house colors for such a dangerous meeting.

"Corliss would make a better bard than a soldier," Damon had said of the man when he visited the Rock as a squire to their uncle Aemon Estermont years ago. Her brother had made it seem as if there were nothing worse than that, but Ashara had enjoyed listening to the lord play the high harp.

To his left sat a much older man with hair as white as the feathers of the gulls that flocked about the fish markets of Lannisport. This man too wore his sigil - a naked woman wreathed in a swirl of pale silk against an azure field, which Ashara knew to be the coat of arms of House Pinkmaiden, making the man presumably Lord Lewys.

"That's his daughter on their sigil," Damon once told her when she was little. "You should go tell him how lovely she looks on his banners."

That was the last time she listened to oldest brother's advice, and Ashara carefully avoided making eye contact with the lord as she sat at the council table, a girl among men. The strangers and sellswords far outnumbered the Westerosi lords.

The next person to speak was someone that Ashara hadn't seen before. He had a stern face and bronze skin, and both his eyes and hair were as black as coal. He looked to be around middle aged, and when he spoke it was with a lordly voice, though he wore no coat of arms - only the image of a black spear topped with golden skulls sewn onto the breast of his doublet.

"Master Varyo, if I may intervene," he began. "What do we know of this boy, other than his bloodline? Is he really fit to rule the Seven Kingdoms? This is to say nothing of the lack of proof that he really has the blood of old Valyria."

"You know, Commander Robert," Varyo began as he moved back to his place at the head of the table and motioned to one of the whores. "They called the Blackfyres the 'Kings with the sword,' and he does indeed have that."

The whore set upon the table a cloth bundle, and Ashara leaned over the table for a better view as Varyo unrolled it carefully, revealing the shards of a broken blade.

"Not proof plenty," he said, waving a hand over the broken sword, "But proof enough for power, no?"

The commander appeared taken aback by this new evidence. "That is Blackfyre," he said quietly, his voice laced with awe, "Wielded by Aegon the Conqueror…"

He stood from the table and dropped to his knee as many of the men began whispering. Ashara looked over at her father, but Loren's austere expression did not falter.

"My sword and those of the Golden Company are yours to command, your Grace," the kneeling commander said.

Aerion stood from his seat, the jarring scraping of his chair against stone bringing a halt to the whispering.

"These questions do not matter," he spoke at last, his voice deep and commanding. "Does it matter what blood flows through my veins? Whether I am a dragon or not?" He stood and moved slowly from his end of the table to Varyo's side, looking at each of the faces of the lords present as he walked. His gaze lingered longer on Ashara, and she felt a chill run down her spine. "What I am is a person who remembers his friends."

He stopped when he reached the Spymaster, and placed a hand against the broken shards of the sword they were calling Blackfyre.

"The question of blood, of legitimacy, of right to rule only comes to this. Here is the evidence of my lineage. The smallfolk will love me for being a king from the ancient past, come anew. The Golden Company will finally return home. You, Lord Hightower! If I am blood of the dragon or not, will it make you the Lord of the Reach? And you Lord Lannister, if I am the dark flame or not, will that not increase the power of your house and rid you of a king who seeks after your wealth?"

"My Lords," he spread his arms, "I am a practical man, a loyal man. My loyalty to my people in Westeros and in the Golden Company will assure me of their support. My promises to you this day should guarantee yours. I am the bridge between powers in this realm. All of you have ambitions and through me they can be achieved."

He grinned now, a wide and treacherous smile that made the hair on Ashara's neck stand on end.

"Or they can continue to be dreams, just out of reach of your grasp until they fade away like so much smoke."

**\- AESLYN -**

The Targaryen girls had been staying in one of the smaller rooms in the great castle of Harrenhal. It was kind of Lord Emmon Baelish to host them within his own walls, given the reputation of their broken and exiled house. Likely the courtesy was one more of pity than respect. Perhaps he was swayed by the girls' beauty. Perhaps he thought the Targaryen sisters too innocent of their ancestor's crimes to be punished by being left to fend for themselves in the inns of the Riverlands, especially during the commotion following the tournament.

Danae Targaryen could not have cared less if they stayed in a castle or slept on a tavern floor. The girl of ten and eight did not share her older sister's love of material things. She was happy to be at the tournament and took a great interest in the games, but as soon as the event ended she equally was happy to leave. Danae thought the castle of Harrenhal to be cursed, and she gladly put the fortress behind when she left for Sharp Point weeks ago.

_I hope she is torn to pieces by wolves on her way to the Wall_, Aeslyn thought, running the brush through her long silvery blonde hair as she sat before a looking glass. Unlike her younger sister, the head of House Targaryen was enjoying the upgrade from their usual accommodations at Massey's Hook and though the rest of the guests had long since left, she remained.

_She thinks herself so courageous and so valiant, but a pretty little child like her won't last a week on the road, even with her bastard friend and his knitting needle of a sword._

A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

She looked up at the sound and called out sweetly, "Enter, please."

A pudgy man opened the door, clad in a chainmail hauberk over a shirt of boiled leather. The colors of Lannister red adorned the armor and upon his hip sat a longsword, looking to have been used little in its lifetime.

"Lady Aeslyn."

The man bowed low, the sweat on his balding head gleaming in the sunlight spilling through the windowsill.

"I've heard tales of your beauty; they do not do it justice." The man said, suddenly paling when he realized his breach in stature. "Forgive me, my lady, I am old and forgetful and seem to have misplaced my etiquette. I am Ser Eddrick Lannett, envoy of House Lannister. It is my honor to escort you to Casterly Rock."

Aeslyn stood from her perch and gave a slight curtsy, a delicate smile dancing on her lips.

"It is a pleasure, Ser Eddrick, and thank you for the kind words. I expect you must be thirsty after your journey, yes? I hope it wasn't too arduous."

Lady Aeslyn made her way to a table where she kept a tray with glasses and a decanter of wine. She poured two cups and offered one to Ser Lannett.

"Thank you, my lady." Eddrick accepted the glass and drank deeply, wiping the corner of his mouth on the sleeve of his boiled armor. He stood nervously, clutching the half-full cup. "Not in so many words, my lady. The Gold Road is not as treacherous as it once was, though I cannot comment on the length."

He sipped at the wine nervously, perhaps hoping to find some courage at the bottom of the cup.

Aeslyn gave a small laugh. Her voice was as soothing as a lullaby.

"Ser Eddrick, it's quite alright you know. You needn't be nervous around me. I am just the same as your Lord Lannister. Let us get to the matter at hand. When do we depart and how long will it take to get to Casterly Rock?"

The lady's fingers delicately circled the rim as she gazed at the old envoy before her. Her violet eyes appeared soft like a doe's and her lips held a faint smile. She was alluring, no doubt, but she possessed a certain beauty that was almost disconcerting.

The knight spoke quickly, trying his best to avoid staring. "We depart at your pleasure, my lady. Lord Loren made it very clear that your comfort and safety were of the utmost importance. The journey takes no more than a week."

His glass was empty now, hanging awkwardly in his chubby fingers.

She took the cup from his hand and set it on the tray along with her own.

"Then we will depart on the morrow. I wish to leave as soon as possible."

_If by some miracle Danae survives the journey to the Wall, I will need to to make certain she does not leave it._

"Are you alright with that, Ser Lannett? Or would you like to rest a little more and depart in the afternoon?"

Ser Lannett looked as though he would very much like the rest but he drew himself up and shook his head. "No my lady, on the morrow it is. I will instruct your handmaidens to bring down your things."

Aeslyn tilted her head and looked at the knight curiously.

"Ser Lannett," she asked, "How long have you been in service to the Lannisters?"

"Oh, some odd forty years my lady, I squired under Tyrius Lannister at the age of nine. A kind man that, impatient though, a trait that showed in his swordplay. Don't get me wrong, at the time I saw everything he did through a green boy's eyes. The way that man could work the sword..." Ser Lannett thrust an imaginary sword at imaginary defenders for a moment, before glancing at Lady Aeslyn, harrumphing self consciously. "But looking back, his strokes were always attacking, never defending. Little wonder that he fell during the Greyjoy rebellion. Some say it was an axe, but I like to think it was his own impatience that did him in."

Aeslyn gave a bemused smile and raised an eyebrow.

_What an odd fellow. So different from the reputation of his lord._

"And what could you tell me of Damon Lannister, Ser Lannett?" she asked. "What's he like? If I recall, he is twenty and two years, correct?"

"Twenty and three, I believe. Damon could charm the gold out of your pouch and make you happy he did it... Though he'd have spent it all by the day's end," Ser Lannett laughed before containing himself. "In truth, it's not my place to say. He's a kind lad, but troubled. He's had his share of drinks and whores, but with a father like that..."

He trailed off, letting the sentence finish itself. "Ah, forgive me, my lady," he said after a pause. "I have taken up enough of your time! Doubtless you wish to get some rest before we depart on the morrow. I shall leave you in peace, and call for you after sunrise."

Aeslyn smiled, and led the aging knight to the door. "I look forward to it, Ser Lannett." She watched his back as he departed down the hallway.

_I look forward to it very much, indeed..._

**\- TROY -**

The Rose Road to Oldtown was long and winding, passing over rivers, sidling up alongside mountains, and stretching over hills and valleys. King Harys and his men marched somberly alongside the Tyrells:, Lord Baelor and his two sons, Troy and Benjen. At the head of the column rode three members of the Kingsguard as well - Ser Jaime Florent, its Lord Commander, Ser Thaddius Lannister, and Ser Jon "Halfjon" Umber. The Baratheon King had rallied nearly every last man of his in a fit of rage when he learned of Maude Tyrell's disappearance.

When they did arrive at Oldtown, they found the gates closed and barred.

"Lord Gylen! The King's host approaches!"

Bells rang, echoing throughout the city. Lord Gylen descended from the Hightower, and took to his horse, galloping down the cobblestone streets to the walls. His heart raced, but his confidence was not shattered yet. Behind him, his host of over twenty thousand organized, lining the streets and filling up the main plazas and courtyards. They had been waiting for this day since whispers first came of the King's army marching along the Rose Road.

Soon Gylen reached Oldtown's tall, archaic walls and climbed them, followed by guards. He emerged on top to stand above the main gate. On either side of him, fully armed city guards lined the walls, making for an impressive display.

A scout did not arrive as expected. Instead, King Harys himself approached, mounted on his destrier. No bows were armed, no threats made. Gylen called down at his king.

"Greetings, Your Grace! I see you have arrived in full force for this misunderstanding. I would love to speak with you." He pointed to the King's army. "But I will speak from here, unless you wish to call your armies off. Or, you may ride in with your Kingsguard and necessary attendants and eat my bread and salt, agreeing to the laws of Guest Right. Either way, I know we both wish not to use our armies, however ready and posed they are."

The King's jaw clenched. "I shall stay here, my Lord. But I will happily call my army off if you give me the Lady Maude. Then I will gladly return to King's Landing."

"Aha! So this is about Lady Maude, is it? Your Grace, I would be glad to accept you and show to you that I, in fact, do not have Lady Maude. Please, come inside. I wish to learn why you suspect me of this heinous crime."

There was a loud lurching sound, and the elegant, sturdy gates of Oldtown slowly opened. They stopped after only a few moments, creating an entrance just wide enough for two or three mounted men to pass through at a time. At the threshold, the Hightower's maester stood, holding a tray with bread and salt, the customary food given to seal the Guest Right.

"Your Grace, you may take me for a kidnapper, but do you really take me for a man who would betray the Guest Right? I swear on the safety of Oldtown, you will not be harmed, killed, or maimed if you enter. And if you know me well, you will know I do not swear on that lightly."

Troy Tyrell immediately turned to his king. "Your Grace, I shall go with you," he said pleadingly and Thaddius Lannister, garbed in his white Kingsguard armor and his snow white cape, scowled at him.

"It is the duty of the _Kingsguard_ to protect his Grace, Tyrell," Thaddius pointed out, annoyed.

"She was a guest at the Red Keep, Hightower," King Harys answered Gylen, glaring up at the man and ignoring the bickering young men behind him. "It was said that you took her captive."

"Ser Jaime, Halfjon, Troy, accompany me through the gates," he commanded two of his Kingsguard. Turning back to Gylen, he shouted up, "If I am harmed, expect the twenty thousand soldiers outside to bring your walls down around you."

"Fantastic!" Gylen replied. "I will meet you down there!"

Thaddius Lannister glared at the Tyrell lad as he flashed him a smug smile and trotted off after the King.

Gylen swiftly turned from the wall, rushing down the stairs. He appeared in the threshold next to the Maester and stood patiently as the party dismounted and accepted his offer of bread and salt before letting them fully through the gates and into the city by foot.

He led them to the main street out the Gate in Oldtown. The sight was shocking. As far down the street as the party could see stood men-at-arms and knights. They lined the side of the road at attention, wearing the colors of the Golden Company, Oldtown, and its bannermen.

"Welcome to Oldtown, your Grace." Gylen smirked and bent his knee, and the entire Oldtown army did as well. They stood after a time, and Gylen lead the King's party down the street. "Would your Grace like to explain why you believe I have taken the Tyrell girl captive?"

King Harys surveyed the men warily, raising an eyebrow. He had not known that Lord Hightower contracted with the Golden Company.

_Another failure of that Lord Rymar… It's almost as if he is deliberately keeping me in the dark..._

"Looks much different since the last I came," he remarked, "There has been rumor that you have taken the Lady Maude captive."

"Yes, that is clear. Perhaps you would like to explain why you think this? I do not want to believe you mustered your entire army on the basis of a rumor, your Grace."

He led the party down the streets, making for the Hightower.

"Then why did you muster yours?" Troy spoke up, his voice venomous.

Gylen laughed and turned his head to the Tyrell lordling, pointing out the gates. "If you could, would you not do so upon hearing about an army marching to your own seat? It matters not why or for whom this army marches, but that it is an army for war. I am simply being safe, ser, you cannot accuse me of that."

"You could not have mustered an army this size so quickly, especially not one twice the size of your usual retinues. You had to have bought the Golden Company months before you knew we were coming."

Gylen nodded and then shrugged. "Fine. Perhaps I suspect war. We all do. I am simply ready to march with Highgarden and Lord Baelor to whatever conflict we have gotten ourselves into this time. I promise, now we will be your first responders in case of disaster, Ser Troy. I am hurt you believe these things of me. Have I not always followed your lord father?"

"I know you are planning to take Highgarden, Lord Gylen," King Harys said coolly. "Is it not coincidental that you would take Lady Maude, one of Lord Baelor's daughters? Surely you mean to keep her captive until you have gotten what you've wanted."

Gylen stopped, his face turning sour. "Your Grace, I apologize, but you know nothing about my intentions. You accuse me of crime after crime, and why? Because you hear rumors? Whispers? I would be delighted to see your proof, but until you have some, you know nothing. I did not think the Father's justice was based on suspicion and folly, Your Grace, but perhaps I was wrong."

Harys scowled, "And you give me lie after lie. Tell me, Lord Gylen. Why do you have all these men assembled? You are telling me if I searched Oldtown and Hightower, that I wouldn't find Lady Maude?"

Lord Hightower raised his voice, angered now. "You have not a shred of evidence! Nothing! The King's Justice dictates you must protect my rights as a lord and as a citizen of Westeros, and that is not what I see here! This Tyrell knight enters your court and tells you his sister is gone, so you march on Oldtown! Yes, your Grace. You may search Oldtown and my seat through and through, this Tyrell girl is not here. Now, would you like me to show you for yourself? I assure you there are no imprisoned ladies here."

Troy was visibly angry now, rage burning behind his golden brown eyes, "You've always hated the Tyrells, just like your father before you, I know you're up to something. If you didn't kidnap her, you know who did!"

He grabbed Lord Gylen suddenly by his collar and slammed him against a wall, _"TELL ME!"_

The second Gylen was touched, every guard within eyesight turned. The army enveloped the party around the wall. Spears were pointed at the heads of the King's party, swordsmen readied themselves for battle, arrows were notched and aimed at everyone but Gylen. No one moved, but Gylen grinned and laughed.

"Ser, I hope you have a nice time in the seven hells. You have just besmirched the Guest Right, in the eyes of the Seven." He squirmed uncomfortably under the knight's plated arm, but was giddy regardless.

There was a long, tense moment.

"Please do not be more foolish than you already have." He turned his head as much as he was allowed by his aggressor towards the King. "I will allow you to search my city, but clearly tensions are too high from the house of my noble lordling. I ask you that all Tyrells and Tyrell bannermen leave at once, or else you will _all _leave. That is a request from your host, who you have just disrespected severely."

The King narrowed his eyes, his gaze flitting from soldier to soldier, each with a weapon trained at him. "Fine. As you wish," he stared then at Lord Gylen, suspicion and loathing written on his face.

"We _all _leave."

**\- DANAE -**

The road had been quiet. The frozen winter ground was hard beneath their horses' hooves as Danae Targaryen, James Rivers, and Summer Steelsong rode north along the Kingsroad from Massey's Hook through the Riverlands. It was the first time they had taken their mounts to the well traveled path. Wary of being spotted by any unsavory wanderers, they kept to the woods as best as they could.

Summer Steelsong and James Rivers rode behind Danae. Their eyes and ears were alert to anything unusual in the surroundings. Nothing foul befell the travelers as the days faded to nights, and the party camped and arose each morn to continue once more, swallowing the leagues between them and the Wall.

The band traveled lightly, packing just minimal clothing, few furs, and one sleeping dragon. Begrudgingly, Danae had left most of her books after Summer and James insisted they could not bring them along. James would travel into the inns and retrieve food while Summer and Danae waited hidden in the woods. Sometimes he returned with rumors, whispers about marching armies and amassing forces, a kidnapped noblewoman and a dead lord paramount.

By day, Persion rode in Danae's luggage, a trunk with holes carved into it that hung between two of their horses. Danae kept a hooded cloak of dark brown over her head at all times, and James and Summer kept their steel ready at their waists. At night, they slept beneath the stars if the weather was good enough. Danae never felt cold, with Persion curled up at her side, the heat from his scaly skin hotter than any campfire.

He was breathing softly, small puffs of smoke shooting from his nostrils every now and then as he huffed at some imaginary enemy in his dreams.

James and Summer were seated by the fire, and the bastard prodded it with a sharpened stick while the sellsword skinned a rabbit.

"Who was your master in Braavos?" Danae heard Summer ask James, ripping the rabbits fur over its head.

"I had the honor of being taught by Mart Forel," James replied proudly. "And you?"

"Mart Forel was one of the best dancers in Braavos," she said politely. "I trained with Fallon of Lys, who won the big duel against Maeron Stormborn atop the roof of the Inn of the Green Eel. The day I beat Fallon was the day he gave me Maeron's sword as my own."

"Yes, I recall watching the duel. The two men were fierce warriors, Master Forel said so himself. He also gifted me with a sword when I finished my training," James nodded at the recollection and patted the waterdancer's sword in its hilt at his hip.

"Your sword has beautiful craftsmanship," Summer replied as she eyed the blade. She set down the rabbit and drew her own sword a few inches from its sheath and revealed the smoky grey ripples of Valyrian steel along the slender blade.

Danae's eyes were drawn to the sword like a moth to flame, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. She had never seen anything like it and a strange feeling filled her all at once, an intense longing in her heart and an ache in her chest, though she could not say why.

_I've never wielded a blade in my life_, she reminded herself, confused by the surge of emotion she felt upon glancing the sword.

James whistled softly. "How in seven hells did you end up with a Valyrian steel longsword? It's even slender enough to use as a waterdancer's blade."

"Must have been fate," Summer shrugged as she resheathed the sword. "We've been traveling for weeks now, and I know very little about you. I hope you are more generous with your blade to your enemies than you are with your words to your friends, James," she changed the topic of discussion wryly.

James chuckled at the woman's words. "I spent the first fourteen years of my life with my mother in Maidenpool, a small town southeast of here. As soon as I was able to leave, I boarded a fisherman's trade ship and set sail for Braavos. It was there that I learned the art of the waterdancing and I returned only less than one year ago to find that my mother had died. I heard rumors in Braavos of the Targaryens living in Westeros, so I sought out their house upon my return. I curse the gods everyday for taking my mother from me."

Danae shifted quietly in her bedroll. In all the time she had known him, James had spoken little to her of his past. She was grateful that the two did not turn around to see that she wasn't really sleeping.

"My mother died in Lys, poisoned by a lover," Danae heard Summer offer in response. "The gods are cruel, James, to make us suffer so."

"Aye," James began to reply. "As for me, I serve only the god of death."

"Valar Morghulis," Summer responded quickly. "If gods are real, I want nothing to do with them. They do nothing for me. But fire, blood... those things I understand. I understand justice and wanting what is yours. I understand revenge."

_As do I, Summer, _Danae thought to herself as Persion let out another angry snort of smoke in his sleep. _As do I..._

**\- THE LION'S DAUGHTER -**

The twin sails of the ship made an impressive sight as it entered the harbor of Lannisport, gulfing the small fishing vessels and longboats of the townsfolk. The _Lion's Roar_ was considered one of the finest galleys in the Lannister fleet. Boasting two main masts and a hundred oars, the ship could overrun many smaller boats, though it still held no weight against the swan ships of the Summer Seas. Loren Lannister stood at the rail, watching the looming figure of Casterly Rock grow on the horizon.

The return voyage from Bloodstone had been made quick by favorable winds. The Westerosi ship captain had praised the Seven for their luck and the winds held all the way to Lannisport.

Ashara Lannister had spent much of the voyage below deck or hanging over the rail, her stomach fighting a losing disagreement with the churning waters of Summer Sea; but now she came to her father's side, pale faced and somewhat weakly. Her betrothed was seldom seen throughout the journey, opting to instead spend much of his time amongst papers and his fragmented sword.

The father and his daughter stood in silence for a moment, watching the keep, until the girl finally spoke.

"I'm nervous," she confessed, green eyes fixed on some unknown point in the distance.

Loren's gaze did not waver, but he responded, words fighting the strong ocean breeze.

"No, you're a Lannister."

With those words, Loren turned and departed, leaving Ashara by the rails, Casterly Rock looming immense on the horizon...

The Great Hall of the castle had been prepared for a wedding feast. Ravens had arrived days prior and an assortment of wines, foods, singers, and fools awaited their arrival. Roast boar with honey sauce, cooked salmon glazed in rhyflower, bread, pastries, red oranges from Dorne, cooked venison, quail, chilled apples - the plates piled high and courses were served one after the other until the amount was too numerous to count.

Wine flowed freely from every glass - Dornish red, Arbor gold, Tyroshi pear brandy. The lords and ladies sipped and drank a myriad of beverages and in one corner a particularly drunk lord had already passed out, snoring loudly into his cup.

Ashara Lannister and Aerion Blackfyre sat in the seats of honor at the head of the table, smiling graciously to all those present. Lady Ashara had regained the appetite that the sea robbed from her, and she munched on lamprey pie and honeycomb while she giggled with the ladies and maidens that she had known her whole life.

The apprehension was still there in the form of butterflies in her stomach, but she felt excited, too, as she shot sideways glances at the man beside her. He was near twice her age but had the rugged look of a sellsword that her handmaidens very much enjoyed discussing.

"He will be experienced, my lady," they had said with coy smiles and giggles. "Your marriage will not be an unhappy one."

The king-to-be spoke in hushed tones to the men beside him, several high lords from the westerlands bearing sigils of violet, navy, and crimson. Lord Loren sat nearby, making polite conversation with some of his more loyal bannermen and watching the Blackfyre closely.

The night wound down quickly, and Loren soon stood to present the cloaks before the septon. Ashara's cape was red lambswool with the sigil of House Lannister roaring proudly in gold. Aerion's cloak was crimson as well, but bore the sigil of House Blackfyre - a three headed dragon breathing flames, stitched in black.

Loren removed the cloak from around Ashara's neck, as per-tradition, and Aerion placed his own around her shoulders, engulfing her in the safety of her new house. Ashara turned, her small figure made even tinier beneath the giant cape.

Nervously she said, "With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband."

"With this kiss I pledge my love," Aerion replied, without hesitation, "And take you for my lady and wife." Aerion took Ashara in his arms and kissed her forcefully before placing her back on her feet. Ashara felt dizzy from the kiss, and her nervousness returned.

"_You're a Lannister."_

The septon stepped forward, well versed in the ceremony.

"Here in the sight of gods and men, I do solemnly proclaim Aerion of House Blackfyre and Ashara of House Lannister to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."

But when the vows ended, the septon raised his voice once more, cutting off the cries of _"off to the bedding!"_

"Not only a husband and wife, but king and queen. Descendant from a long line of Targaryen kings and true heir to the throne, in the light of the seven, Aerion Blackfyre shall be named King of Westeros, and Ashara shall be his Queen. May your reign be long, and your rule just."

Lord Loren stepped forward, a crown forged of gold and emeralds glinting in the torchlight. A lion and a dragon, intertwined.

"Under one house, this land shall know peace, Aerion Blackfyre, true king of Westeros."

The crown was placed upon the Black Dragon's head.

**\- TROY -**

"Damn them all to the seven hells!" King Harys cursed, removing the pieces of his armor one by one and throwing them to the ground angrily as he walked back to the encampment. A nervous young squire followed closely behind, picking up the steel and attempting to balance it in his small arms.

Troy Tyrell hung his head in shame, the glare of his father Lord Baelor boring a hole into his back as he walked behind the King and his party. It was his fault that they had been thrown out of Oldtown without finding Maude, and he knew it. Thaddius Lannister seemed to know it as well, judging by the smug smirk the knight of the Kingsguard wore on his handsome young face.

"Your Grace," Jaime Florent was saying, "What would you have us do next? It is possible that the Lady Maude is still in there somewhere, but with the Golden Company in the city, we will never get through their walls."

Harys threw back the flap to the tent and stormed inside to the table laid out in the center. For a moment, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard thought he was going to flip it over, but instead Harys slammed a fist down onto the map atop it and whirled around to face his entourage.

"I did not march my entire army out here to turn around and go home!" he bellowed furiously. "Not without Lady Maude!"

The rest of the men entered the tent tensely, their faces etched with concern, anger, and in some cases hesitancy.

"Your Grace," Lord Baelor began, "We should go to Highgarden. We can call my banners there and return to Oldtown with twice our current strength. We can wrest my daughter free from that vile and slippery Lord Gylen, and gut his sellswords like pigs for the slaughter."

Harys was quiet for a moment, and a few of the lords present exchanged uneasy glances. Many felt uncomfortable as it was already. They were hundreds of leagues from the capital with nearly every soldier the Baratheon King had, and there was little evidence that Maude was in Oldtown at all.

Baratheons were not known for their caution, Troy knew, Harys least of all.

"Yes," The king said after a time, nodding and pulling at his beard, "We will march to Highgarden. There we can muster more men and see if there has been more word as to where Hightower could be keeping her."

"I will lead the van!" Troy said suddenly, lifting his head. He was hoping to redeem himself for his failure in the city, but the King did not want to hear it.

"You're a damned fool if you think I'll let you muck this up again," Harys spat. "No, you're not coming with us. Ser Thaddius," he turned to address the knight, "Escort Lord Tyrell back to the capital. See to it that he remains there, lest we bring down any more of the gods' wrath upon our righteous cause."

Troy started to protest but he felt his brother's hand on his arm and closed his mouth. When he looked to Benjen, his younger sibling shook his head in quiet warning. Troy didn't think it were possible for the Lannister knight to look any more pleased with himself, but Thaddius appeared positively giddy at the King's order.

"Yes, Your Grace," he responded, turning his arrogant smile to Troy, who met it with a loathing glare.

Troy shook off his brother's hand and stormed out of the tent and back into the cold gray light of day. There was a chilly wind blowing to remind them all that it was still winter, but he couldn't shiver with his blood so hot.

_You truly blew it,_ he thought as he slinked back to his own camp through the rows of tents that had been hastily set up outside the walls of the port city of Oldtown. _You could have had a chance at glory, riding like a true knight through the gates of Oldtown with your sword drawn, saving your captured maiden sister and showing the whole realm why the Reach is the capital of chivalry._

"Troy?" a voice he recognized broke through his thoughts. He glanced down to see Mellara at his elbow, her sharp little face looking up at him with a frown as she took two steps for each one of his just to match his pace.

"Mellara, what are you doing here?" Benjen asked, annoyed. "You're supposed to be with the women, not wandering about a camp full of soldiers on your own. Were you eavesdropping again?"

Her cheeks reddened guiltily and her gaze flew to the ground for a moment before she replied, "I may have happened to overhear some words spoken in the King's tent while fetching water…"

He looked accusingly at her empty hands, but she cut him off before he could scold her.

"What happened in Oldtown? Did you find any proof?"

"No, we found nothing," he said. "And the reason that we found nothing is because we were forced to leave before we could even look, because I… I lost my temper. I laid hands on Lord Gylen, violating our Guest Right, so he asked us to leave. There, are you happy now? He's sending me back to the capital to punish me, and I won't get to march into battle."

"Will there really be a battle?" Mellara asked, her brown eyes widening.

Troy nodded, "King Harys is a Baratheon," he said. "A Baratheon never needs an excuse for battle, but Lord Gylen's shiftiness has given him one besides. He has a sellsword army in his walls. The man is preparing for a war."

"Sellswords?"

"That's right," Troy nodded again.

"But why would he purchase sellswords at a time of peace?" Mellara wondered aloud.

"I thought to ask the same thing, sister. He said that he suspects war, and wanted to be ready to march with Highgarden to whatever cause our father chooses."

"More like march _on_ Highgarden," Mellara replied darkly.

Troy drew his lips into a tight smile and nodded grimly. "The Hightowers have always coveted our house's paramountcy. They think that their wealth alone dictates their worth," he scoffed. "Gylen Hightower is about as honorable as a Frey."

Mellara trotted along her older brother, her brow furrowed in thought. After a time, she asked in cautious, worried tones, "Do you… Do you think he's hurt Maude?"

Troy didn't answer right away. His gaze was fixed on some vague point in the distance, though he did not seem as if he were truly seeing anything. His eyes were clouded, whether in fear or anger she could not say. Perhaps it was both.

"I don't know, Mellara," he replied at last. "But if he has, you can be sure that he will pay for it."

**\- ULRICH -**

A few days after the council at Bloodstone, a huge Westerosi warship sailed into port at the isle of Bloodstone. A rainbow flag flew at the ship's mast, and a figure dressed in armor as white as the snows of Winterfell descended from the ship. A flowing white cape billowed out behind him, and long mane of white hair fell around his shoulders.

His violet eyes glared at the Golden Company men who came to greet him at the docks.

"I didn't know that in the Stepstones you are greeted with swords and spears," the man said calmly.

The men both looked at him, their Westerosi eyes recognizing the armor and the sword on his back. One of them kept a firm look on his grizzled face and held his sword out, ready to fight. The other, obviously a fresh recruit, couldn't hold his nerve and the spear was shaking in his hands. They hadn't expected any excitement today, and then Ser Ulrich Dayne, the Sword of the Morning ,turned up, jumping from a gigantic warship.

"It's alright, men. I am here to see Varyo Velaryon. I do not wish to fight you," he said, and the shaky one almost lowered his spear, but then a handful more Golden Company men came out, pointing longbows at the knight. He held his hands up, in surrender.

"Take me to Velaryon," he said, as chains were clamped around his hands and he was dragged off towards the castle.

The sellswords threw the Sword of the Morning into a locked room. Bloodstone was never charming. Promise Hill might have its moments in its courtyards, and much charm could be found - for a price, of course - in Burntbone; Homeward Bound, however, was devoid of it. The harbor castle was the first structure to be raised on Bloodstone by the company, built in the aftermath of their failed claim. Slaves from captured galleys and those fleeing the wars of the Free Cities had bled and died to create this monster of lightly colored stone, and it laid over the cove like some great beast.

This room was in the bowels. A narrow window opened on one wall, illuminating the mildewy room. A straw mattress covered one corner and an old desk another.

It was an hour until Ulrich's host arrived. He entered the room flanked by four retainers, one bearing a Norvoshi axe the size of a dinner plate. Varyo came behind them, clad in his eastern styled light armor with a cloth surcoat beneath and a wrap of Velaryon blue tied about it.

No one would ever call Varyo ugly, but neither would they ever say he was comely. He had a gait like a child sneaking from his bed and his hair was the typical Velaryon silver, but it was clipped untidily and stuck up in all the wrong places. It did no wonders for his face, which was unfortunately slightly too chubby to show the high cheekbones of the usual Velaryon stock.

He focused his mismatched eyes on Ulrich, a slightly nervous expression on his face.

"A knight of the Kingsguard is no common sight on Bloodstone, let alone the Sword of the Morning himself. I should give you knowledge of my home city's main expertise and sell your precious sword to some fat magister."

He walked closer into the room.

"Why have you come here, Ser?"

"The sword wouldn't let itself be taken so easily," Ulrich responded. "But that doesn't matter; I'm trusting in your hospitality, Varyo."

The knight laughed and stood up from his seat at the desk. His white cape was covered in muck and straw from the floor, his hair bedraggled and mussed. Still, he stood and was a fair bit taller than Varyo, rivaling his guards for height.

"I came here expecting a nice meal, where we can talk about certain rumors and have a good time. Instead, I get thrown into a cell and treated like some common swineherd. Where are your manners, Varyo? I arrived on a warship, true, but you'll find that we flew a rainbow flag and I did nothing to provoke your guards."

He shook his head. "Didn't your mother ever teach you the rules of hospitality? Or was it Walder Frey who taught you?"

Varyo stepped back a little. He was possessed by a certain bravery, but not to men like this.

"You should know that our island is not always welcoming, this time less than most. You see our galleys? You see the sellswords in the streets? I have no rumors to give you, knight, only tidings of war!" Varyo walked from the room. "Take him. We'll find him quarters on Promise Hill. The Sword of the Morning deserves that at least."

"Tidings I will sadly collect, Velaryon," Ulrich called after him. "I came here for diplomacy, and I will be on my way shortly, by the looks of things. May I have Dawn back? I don't want anybody getting hurt by it, you see."

Varyo motioned to the Sellswords and Ulrich's bonds were released. Dawn was thrust back into the knight's hands. "We'll take bread and salt in my solar. It's only a short ride up to Promise Hill. We may talk of many things knight, and I do give you my word that you shall return to the capital."

"A man with honor, good. I wasn't sure about you when I arrived, but I see you have more sense than your guards. Nevertheless, I look forwards to the food."

The Velaryon motioned for Ser Dayne to follow him, and they left the room.

"It's a queer sort of honor a sellsword and rebel can have. My father named me usurper and traitor. If I had honor then and stood to hear his justice, I would be in dire need of a head." Varyo sighed as they continued on. "Honor and valor are not lost here, but they take on a rather crueler form. You said I have more sense than the guards there. Maybe, but I call it more a luck of birth. A true sense on this island is avoiding death by any means."

"I understand," Ulrich replied with a chuckle, "Death never seems to be the appealing option, does it?"

When they arrived in the solar, the men took seats at the table. Taking a decent slice of the bread, Ulrich sat back in his chair comfortably.

"I have heard of your council held here," the knight began. "Some present were lords of Westeros, some present were mercenary captains. You have a dragon, I'm told, a black one but still a dragon. And black dragons oft want iron chairs to sit upon, history has proven."

He spoke eloquently, his purple eyes intense. "I offer your dragon a chance to rethink this notion. Please, come to court, and he'll be welcomed and treated like any other lord. Even better, declare himself lord or king of the Stepstones and then pledge fealty, adding to the kingdoms of the Iron Throne. I extend the hand of friendship, and hope that you do not reject it. I am flexible, and will gladly listen to your demands."

After he finished talking, he did away with the bread and popped a fig into his mouth.

Varyo raised his voice and the retainers came closer behind the chair. For once there was no nervousness in him, and his mismatched eye were focused.

"You offer us nothing! The chance to live out our days far from our rightful lands, kissing the arse of a foolish king and spilling our blood to defend his new lands! You have seen our island now, would you live on it? I am rightful Lord of Driftmark, yet I sit here whilst another sits my halls." He sat back, looking suddenly resigned. "Anyway, you are too late. The Black Dragon has sailed, and with him sails war." He looked to the retainers. "Place him in the Lord Vault for tonight and bring him supper. I need to work out how we shall proceed."

"My lord, you will not detain me any further," Ulrich said calmly. His eyes were closed, his head tilted, as if thinking. One hand was on Dawn, and the other was on the table. "You will provide me with a small galley, ready to take me back to Westeros. King's Landing, in fact. You know who I am. You know I'm one of the few actually capable of making it out of here. Please, don't make this hard."

Varyo slipped a hand into his halfcloak and stood warily.

"Ser, I have given you bread and salt. Now I provide you with a room, we shall not be sailing until tomorrow. And anyway, maybe you kill my retainers, and of that I would be only half sure. Perhaps you kill me. There are five thousand swords on this island. How in the seven hells do you propose to beat them all?"

Varyo's retainers put their hands on their steel.

"How do I propose to beat all of them? Well, the answer is simple, my lord. I know who I am." Ulrich pointed to his chest. "I am Ser Ulrich Dayne, Knight of the Kingsguard and Sword of the Morning. I fought White Walkers in the Rainwood, I won the Tourney of Harrenhal, and I know who I am. The thing is, Varyo, a lot of your men are Westerosi. I know who I am, but they know who I am, too. Nobody wants to face the Sword of the Morning in battle."

As he spoke, he opened his eyes and they blazed with intricate purple hues. His hand tightened around the hilt of Dawn and he smiled.

Varyo laughed quietly. His eyes flew to his spear at the corner of the room.

"Westerosi men? Your whisperers are obviously less accurate than you would like. I would wager that only one man in ten on this island comes from the Seven Kingdoms. Indeed, in this room you face none born on Westeros."

He indicated his retainers.

"There are two captains of the Maiden's Men here. The one built like a bear is John o'Steel, hailing from Skagos. He was a survivor of a hundred battles when you were still a squire, and he would happily eat your flesh once he buries his steel in it. The fatter one is the Cut Lord, he was trained in Norvos in axe craft. You Dornish would surely know of them. And the man with the arahk is my loyal Rhaevo, trained in Lys in the house of Lohko. You would do well to be careful, Ser, even Dawn cannot stand to us all at once."

"And may I say, what a pleasure it is to meet such fine gentlemen," Ulrich responded. "Now, I've decided I'm to retire from the dinner table. I'm afraid I'll be late, and I have a ship to catch."

He stood from the table casually, and tucked his chair under it as if he were at home. Turning his head, he faced John o'Steel.

"Skagosi, eh? You're a long, long way from home."

Turning to the man with the arahk, he extended his hand, offering a handshake. Rhaevo didn't accept it.

"Ah, Lys," he said wistfully. "It's more known for its whorehouses than its warriors, wouldn't you think?"

Finally, he greeted the Cut Lord with a bow.

"My lord, I must apologize. I don't seem to remember whether you are actually a lord of somewhere or not. Maybe the black Dragon has promised you a castle. I bet you're getting tired of waiting for it."

Smiling, he stepped towards the door.

Varyo pulled out a small glass vial from his half-cloak.

"I gave you my word you shall return, but you won't be leaving until the morrow, Ser."

John o'Steel smiled a vicious grin.

"You might have some fancy sword," the man spat in a low growl, "But word is even a Stark boy can equal you. You want to taste death here? Go ahead."

"Right then," Ulrich nodded, "I guess we have that settled."

He turned back to the table, and picked another fig from the bowl. With his other hand, he grabbed a knife and spun, thrusting it into the left eye of the Lyscene man, who screamed a blood-curdling cry before crumpling to the floor.

The Skagosi was on the other side of the table, and so Ulrich turned to the Lord Cutter. The fat man heaved his massive axe in a two-handed overhead sweep, and Ulrich grabbed his wooden chair as a shield. The axe embedded itself in the seat, and he yanked it from his hands by pulling the chair away. Spinning, he dropped the broken remains, unsheathed Dawn, and cut through two of the fat man's chins. He fell to the floor, throat slit.

Whilst Ulrich turned himself into a melee nightmare, Varyo ran at his back. He smashed the bottle in the proud knight's face.

Pain shot through Ulrich's body. The liquid fizzed and burned on his face, smelling like cloves, and smoke and death. Slowly it became impossible for Ulrich to move his body, and darkness gathered on his field of vision.

Varyo flew to Rhaevo as soon as he could. The dying retainer tried to speak some last words and the spymaster's eyes filled with tears.

"Noble Ser, you would do well to educate yourself on the other Lyscene great profession," Varyo choked out between tears, addressing the paralyzed knight. "As it is, you have just killed my oldest friend under my roof."

He stood over the prone body of his friend, his proud Velaryon blue stained with the blood of the man who half raised him.

He called for help and four more Sellswords entered the room.

"I gave you Guest Right, oathbreaker! I guaranteed your safety! Guards, take him to the Golden Cell, we shall give him to the Bolton."

He left the room, heavy with sorrow.

"And throw that damned sword in the sea."

**\- THE LORD COMMANDER -**

The Tumblestone and the Redfork met in cavalcade of churning water at the ancestral seat of House Tully. When Hoster closed his eyes he could still see the swirling gray waters from the top of the Wheel Tower and hear the great waterwheel within groaning and creaking.

"_Bend the knee!"_ the man had said and Hoster could hear his voice, too.

The rivers, the pinnacle, the covered parapet walk, and the moat - he could see them all in his mind's eye, spread out before him beneath heavy, rain laden clouds streaked across a gray sky. A man in plate armor, the shine of a steel blade, a squalling infant dangled by its ankle out over the landscape below. So long ago, but the images came unbidden to his memory with painful clarity.

He thought for a moment that he even felt the raindrops against his face, but it was only snow. Light flurries were being whipped about by the wind and the fires in their blackened braziers along the top of the Wall did little against the bite of the cold.

_The North has its own kind of winter_, Hoster thought. He had seen the roof of his family's keep sagging beneath three feet of snow. He had seen the Godswood covered in a thick white blanket of it, icicles hanging off the spindly branches of the Weirwood. He had seen the Water Gate clogged with chunks of floating ice, but he had never truly felt the grasp of winter until he came to the Wall.

"_Bend!"_

He could feel the hard ground beneath him, cold stone against his bloody knees. The battle had been so short for a siege that lasted so long.

_I traded one castle for another, _the Lord Commander thought, then corrected himself bitterly. _No, I _lost_ one castle._

Castle Black was not Riverrun. It held no warmth, not from the laughter of women and children nor from any of the dozen hearths.

From atop the wall, he could see from Whitetree to the Fist of the First Men. He could see Frostfangs and Giant's Stairs, he could feel snowfall and blistering winds. It had been a long time since he had been up here.

"And now his Watch is ended," he softly spoke, a mixture of a sob and a whisper, and he threw himself off the Wall.

**\- TYREK -**

Damon Lannister dismounted outside the Lion's Mouth, tired and filthy from travel.

The gate to the great stone fortress of Casterly Rock was almost as impressive as the castle itself. Lannisport was famed for its goldwork and with its gilded spire, gold leaf, and intricately carved etchings set into the thick beige stone, the castle's gate house was as much a work of art as it was a line of defense.

The gate earned its name not only for the sigil of the family who held the fortress but also for the very rock itself into which their castle was carved. Those sailing into the harbor of Lannisport who looked up at the monstrous cliff could faintly make out the shape of a lion, sitting proud and resplendent with two giant paws placed firmly in the Sunset Sea.

The Gold Road was less safe than Damon and his company had expected, likely due to increased traffic from the tournament at Harrenhal. On the bright side, if they brought a few bandit heads to Casterly Rock, his father couldn't say they came home empty handed.

He dismissed the help who came to meet the party at the gate house, opting to take his horse to the stable himself. The sun hung low and pale in the bleak gray sky, but whatever dusting of snow had fallen in the last week was melted already and the wind's bite was not so fierce. Winter had been rather mild in the West, and Damon in his lifetime had never seen the dune grass buried under heavy drifts of fluffy white snow or fishermen standing at the prows of their boats using long wooden poles to break up chunks of ice in their paths.

A sandy haired child dusted off his pants and stood clumsily as Lord Loren's son approached. He straightened his shoulders and tried to stand a little bit taller as he accepted the reins with a "M'lord."

"Tyrek Hill," Damon greeted him with a smile, "your station has improved since I saw you last."

The boy grinned. "They said I could work in the stables now, m'lord. They said you asked it of them."

He led the horse by the reins into one of the stalls with Damon following behind him. The two began undoing the straps and buckles on the saddle together, the Lannister with the deftness that came from years of practice and Tyrek with the uncertainty of someone who had until very recently been a cupbearer.

"Yes, well, you said you'd like to learn to ride someday, if I recall," Damon watched the boy attempt to remove the saddle, pulling on the fender and trying to slide it from the horse's back. It was likely twice his own weight, and Damon intervened just as it was about to fall. "Careful now, you will crush yourself. Slide it like this. You don't want to scuff the cantle."

"I did say that, m'lord," the boy replied breathlessly, struggling with the weight of the saddle. "Thank you, m'lord."

"What news from the Rock?" Damon removed his leather gloves and slapped them against his pant leg, trying to remove some of the dust from the road.

The boy set the weighty saddle aside and stood on tiptoe to reach the blanket. It was cut from soft cloth of a deep scarlet hue and probably worth more than a month's worth of his wages. He folded it with great care and almost reverence, pulling corner to corner tightly as the stablemaster had shown him.

"Troops have been moving 'bout, m'lord," he said. "Thousands left Lannisport. Don't know where they're headed."

Had he still been a cupbearer he might have heard more about troop movements, but now bits and pieces of information came to the boy from the stable workers and the kennel master. Lenn, Yorkel, Bald Beck, and Imry weren't as refined as those he had attended to inside the castle, but they were looser with their tongues and the boy had already learned from the laborers a great deal more about the lords and ladies whose wine he used to pour than he ever did from the subjects themselves.

He could occasionally hear snippets from conversations between important knights or soldiers when he met them by the gatehouse to take their mounts, but they never came into the stables themselves and so his interaction with nobles became rather limited. The boy didn't mind. His mother once told him that even trueborn people could be bastards and that a lord's son was in fact more likely than any other to be a "miscreant and insufferable little ass."

The boy set the blanket aside and picked up a curry comb. When he turned back around, Damon Lannister was unfastening the cloak from his shoulders. It was once a deep crimson red, but now like his high leather boots and splendid Lannister armor was stained with mud, dirt, and blood.

The boy noticed the blood and his face lit up excitedly. "A battle, m'lord?" he asked hopefully.

"No, I'm afraid not," Damon replied with a smile, "Just bandits."

Damon balled the cloak up and shoved it under his arm and the boy's gaze flew to the sword at the man's hip. A real sword, castle forged steel no doubt, and probably almost as difficult for the child to lift as the saddle. It was strange to think that someone as affable as the Warden's son had swung it to kill but the boy knew that bandits were the lowest sort of people - cutthroats, thieves, and rapists, and the duty fell to knights and noblemen to keep the rest of them safe from such unsavory folk.

He realized belatedly that he had been staring, but when he looked back up at the man's face, Damon was still smiling bemusedly.

"Tell your mother I said hello," he said with a wink before leaving.

The boy brought the comb to the horse's flank and watched him go.

**\- THE STORMLORD -**

Griffin's Roost, the seat of House Connington, was a castle located between Storm's End and Crow's Nest in the Stormlands on a lofty crag jutting out from the shores of Cape Wrath. Red stone cliffs surrounded the holdfast on three sides, which descended into the stormy waters of Shipbreaker Bay. The land-facing approach was a long natural ridge called the Griffin's Throat, and its entrance was guarded on one end by a gatehouse and by the castle's main gate and two round towers on the other end.

Salos Seaworth sat in the main parlor drumming his fingers against the table, waiting for his host. He was oddly calm for being, as simply as it could be put, a complete and total traitor to the realm.

_In good company, however, _he thought, sighing and he grew increasingly impatient.

Orys Connington swung open the door to the parlor with one great hand. His traveling garments were gone, replaced by simple leather with the Connington Griffins emblazoned over his chest. His usually tidy red beard had been allowed to grow a bit, giving his face the appearance of recently being set on fire.

"Tell me, Lord Seaworth," he said in his rough, deep voice, skipping any pleasantries as he strode over to the table and picked up the jug of ale that sat atop it. "Have you ever been to Storm's End?"

Salos looked up and his eyes landed on the crest on Orys' chest. He gave a simple nod and ceased the drumming of his fingers. He gave no expression as he replied to Lord Orys.

"Lord Orys," he muttered. "I have indeed been to the ancestral seat of the Baratheons. Many a time in fact, as a loyal lord sworn to my liege."

Orys poured himself a mug of ale and set the pitcher and the cup both back down. He took off his gloves and threw them onto the table as well before seating himself across from the Onion Lord.

"It's a magnificent sight to behold, is it not? A single tower, twice as large as this entire castle and infinitely more defensible, truly a seat worthy of its name."

Orys picked up the mug of ale again and drank deeply from it, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve when he finished. Salos watched with silent displeasure.

"I'm looking forward to moving there," Orys said. "Too many bad memories here, and I'd rather live in a place more befitting of my coming title."

Orys waved to a serving girl and she came scurrying with a plate of bacon, setting it down before the Connington.

"Aye, your new title," Savos spoke, his words tinged with barely concealed distaste.

Orys grinned at that and leaned over to pour another mug of ale which he pushed across the table to the lord.

"A lord loyal to his Baratheon liege, you called yourself," Orys said, still smiling. "Too few of those, these days, it seems. And what liege sits in Storm's End now? Joseph Baratheon sits on the small council as our realm's Master of Laws. His son Patrek is off seeking glory and adventure," he waved his hand about when he said that, rolling his eyes, "as a hedge knight like the stories he read as a boy. Who does that leave in the keep of our great lord paramount? His castellan? His _brave_ and _valiant_ little brother Cleos?"

His words were clearly sarcasm. The youngest of the Baratheon brothers, Cleos hardly resembled any of his great ancestors. He was a scrawny lad with a pale face and arms as thin as twigs and bones as brittle as kindling. His meek nature made him a source for mocking by others in the Stormlands, but as the King's youngest brother such japes were made into the bottom of cups and never in the presence of another Baratheon.

Orys took a few bites of bacon before looking up at his guest.

"I'm sorry, that's so rude of me." He turned back to the serving girl, "Bring him a plate too, and whatever else he wants. You know," Orys moved his eyes back to Salos', "You're really coming out of all this quite nicely. Once this is all done, I'm going to give you your castle back and let you keep your children - well, most of them at least, save for those who will be warded at Storm's End."

Savos clenched his jaw at those words but remained silent.

"We don't have to be enemies. I know you're probably mad at me, and rightfully so, but I want you on my side. This whole loss of land and taking you as an 'honored guest,' it's all just a show. I didn't want to do it, but it was what was expected of me. A smart man like yourself understands that, I'm sure. You and the others who back the winning side will enjoy all the spoils to come once it's finished."

He reached for his mug and washed down the bacon with another swig of ale.

Salos ignored the food and drink. "You understand my hesitation to trust you, my lord. Committing treason is not something I take lightly. You've taken my castle, yes, and my children. I could still refuse to bend, and let you slaughter us all. The other storm lords would see me as a martyr and use my death as fuel for their cause."

Salos looked around the room, taking in the Griffins and other decorations.

"Or I could do as you ask - bend my knee, and let the other Baratheon vassals see that House Connington has support. Perhaps such an act would even sway others to your cause. That is what you are counting on, is it not? Obviously, the right choice is death, but you sit before a man who wants to live. War is coming. Men must hedge their bets and I intend to back a winner."

"Aye," the Griffin nodded.

A sudden chill swept through the room as a cold breeze blew in from an open window.

"The lion has awoken," Orys said, leaning forward with a wicked grin framed by his fiery beard, "And he is stalking his prey."

**\- DAMON -**

"Hello, Jate," Damon greeted the guard cheerfully as he approached the doors to the Great Hall in Casterly Rock. They were twice as tall as a man, made of heavy oak and banded with blackened iron. The stone archway that framed them was ornate, with gold inlaid in the murals carved into it - a torrent of rain falling against a broken holdfast, soldiers fighting in thick reeds and knee deep water, a lion feasting on the throat of a fallen doe.

"You're late."

The young soldier was standing dutifully with his sword sheathed in an unornamented scabbard at his hip and a red cloak draped across the leather armor on his chest and over one shoulder. He had been stationed there for hours, and his legs felt stiff.

"I believe you meant 'Hello, Damon,'" the heir replied. "'Good to see you, Damon. I'm not still mad about that bet, Damon, you won fair and square, Damon.' That's what you meant, isn't it?" he grinned.

The guard would have rolled in his eyes normally and retorted back with some lame excuse about weighted dice, but instead he shifted nervously and threw a glance over his shoulder at the heavy set of oaken doors behind him.

"Your lord father is inside. You know how he hates to be kept waiting."

Damon studied his friend's face curiously, wondering why he was behaving so oddly. "What's come over you, Jate? You act as though someone's fucked your sister."

There was a sudden clatter from inside the room and then the faint sound of distant laughter and chattering voices. Jate shuffled his feet awkwardly and glanced at the floor as Damon frowned.

"How many people has he got in there?" he asked the guard, looking at him confusedly. "I thought this was to be just the two of us. Please don't tell me that my aunt is visiting…"

Jate looked apologetic, but only shrugged weakly before turning and pushing open the great big doors.

The din from inside died down as the lords and ladies present noticed the heir to Casterly Rock standing framed in the threshold, looking rather surprised to find the room so filled. There were men and women from various Westerlands houses, and Damon recognized most of them by sight. Rollam Westerling, Peter Plumm, Addam Spicer, Robin Lorch, Clarent Payne...

A feast appeared to be well underway. Cups of chilled Arbor Gold and Dornish Red sat upon the table surrounded by roast mutton, quail, and fish from the Sunset Sea. Torches blazed in their sconces, casting a warm light of gold and red flickering over the table, and filling the Great Hall with warmth.

"Damon, so good of you to join us," Lord Loren Lannister called across the hall. "I trust you brought House Lannister honor in the joust?" The lone voice rang out in the quiet chamber.

A stranger was seated beside him, the most beautiful woman that Damon had ever laid eyes on. Shining white blonde tresses were pinned back behind a pale and comely face with a silver jeweled clip fashioned into the shape of a three headed dragon, and a pair of violet eyes shone like amethyst crystals in the light of the torches. Her gown was flowing black silk, darker than obsidian, with long crimson sleeves that draped over her arms.

"My lord." Damon bowed and looked up at his father suspiciously. "I was not aware you were hosting a feast. Forgive my tardiness."

"I've forgiven your tardiness before, Damon." Loren waved wearily for Damon to take a seat. His son crossed the room hesitantly and the conversations started back up again as the guests returned to their food and drink. When the son reached the table where his father sat, Loren gestured to the woman at his side.

"May I introduce Lady Aeslyn of the House Targaryen."

Damon stepped forward and bowed, taking her small hand in his and kissing it politely. While from afar her amethyst eyes seemed to glitter playfully, up close he noticed a certain chill to them - unnerving, but incredibly mesmerizing.

"Lady Aeslyn, it is an honor to be in the company of a dragon."

She smiled sweetly as he took her hand and the apples of her cheeks seemed to become a little rosier.

"My lord," she replied, "The pleasure is mine."

Damon glanced at his father confusedly. "I thought that you and I were having supper," he said.

"And we are." Loren tilted his head in the direction of the empty chair at his right. "Sit."

Damon looked hesitantly from Aeslyn to his father before obeying, taking the empty seat.

"Now that the pleasantries are out of the way," the Lord of Casterly Rock picked up the decanter of wine that sat on the table and moved it out of the reach of his son. "Damon, Lady Aeslyn comes to us with an interesting proposition. You are of yet unmarried, and the Targaryen family wishes to expand its list of allies."

His son stirred uncomfortably.

"The two of you are to be married. Tonight."

"I'm sorry," the heir tensed at those words. "I am somewhat weary from travel and I don't think I heard you correctly, father. Come again?"

"Don't play the fool, Damon." Loren's eyes were hard. "You are three and twenty, heir to Casterly Rock. I grow old, Damon. Soon enough the lordship will pass to you, and I will not see you squander it. You will be wed tonight, and that's final."

Damon looked down at the table, avoiding his father's icy stare. "Very well, then. I will do what you say."

"Good." Loren turned to the Targaryen beside him. "Lady Aeslyn, if you will excuse me, I will make the necessary arrangements."

Lord Loren stood abruptly and headed for the great doors to the hall while the other lords and ladies continued their eating and gossiping. He paused for a moment in the threshold and spoke to two Lannister guards in a low voice, looking over his shoulder at his oldest son.

Aeslyn turned her violet eyes to the Lannister heir, reaching across the table and grasping his hand.

"Damon, it would be an honor to be your wife."

He forced a smile, though it came out as more of a grimace. Damon very much wanted to bolt from the room. He could be at the stables and on a horse headed for the docks within the hour; he could catch a ship to Essos and hide across the narrow sea. Instead, he didn't skip a beat with his polite response.

"My lady, I am certain the honor would be mine."

**\- SARELLA -**

Sarella Martell inhaled deeply.

The aromas of flowers from the gardens - orchids, smokeberries, and dragon's breath - filled the stifling air in the Old Palace at Sunspear and she breathed them in as she walked between the rows of Sandbeggar trees.

She had felt restless since returning to Dorne. Her father had holed himself up in his solar, holding council meetings that he did not see fit to invite her to.

_If I am to rule in his stead one day, he needs to begin letting me participate in these sort of things, _she thought with a frown.

She wandered through the palace until she reached a balcony overlooking the practice yard just outside the armory, where a few young men were sparring. She placed her hands on the balcony rail and watched them jealously.

Martyn Dayne was in the yard, practicing with his greatsword. After launching a flurry of strikes and rolling to the left of an imaginary opponent's attack, Martyn stopped to wipe the sweat off his brow, looking up and noticing Sarella. He bowed low to her.

"Princess, I did not see you there. How was King's Landing? I had hoped to see you and your father at Harrenhal, but sadly you were not there."

"Lord Dayne!" Sarella called down with a smile. "I hope my spectating does not interfere with your practice. King's Landing was lovely. Well, the palace at least," she clarified. "I was able to talk with your brother for a time. It is good to see him doing so well in his station."

She debated whether she should mention that Ser Ulrich seemed unhappy, and decided against it.

"I was sorry to miss the tourney. If you would regale me with stories of the games, I would be most grateful. Tell me, is that a new blade you have?"

She leaned over the railing curiously.

Martyn smiled, glad to have a chance to talk about his new blade. "The blade is new, yes, and castle forged. It is thinner and lighter than most greatswords, so that I do not lose speed and still have great range. As for the tourney, Ulrich won the joust, defeating Jojen Stark in the finale, but injuring him in the process. The melee was quite spectacular. Ulrich battled Thaddius Lannister and it was a fight for the ages. I myself managed to beat the young Ser Clegane and Ser Valaeryn Yronwood in the joust before losing to Damon Lannister."

Martyn sheathed his sword and slung it across his back, then took off his helmet and combed his hair back with his hand. "There was also a female sellsword who did quite well; I believe her name was Morgane Sand."

"You don't say!" Sarella raised an eyebrow. "It is no wonder then that father sought her out as a protector for me." She glanced about to see if the sellsword was leaning against a wall nearby. "He thinks I can't handle myself," she added, annoyed. "But that's hardly a surprise. If he could keep me at the Water Gardens until my fiftieth nameday, he would."

"Oh, how I would've loved to see you and your brother fight," she sighed. "I bet it was spectacular, indeed. I heard of the battle of Rainwood. They say it was an army of White Walkers, larger than giants and more numerous than the host of Casterly Rock! I heard Ulrich killed a bear the size of a mammoth and you yourself burned an entire castle to the ground with nothing but a single jar of wildfire."

She suddenly blushed, embarrassed. Repeating the rumors and whispers she heard of the Battle of Rainwood aloud, she heard how preposterous they sounded.

Martyn only chuckled, amused at the Princess' naivety. "The White Walkers were few and no bigger than an Umber. Ulrich did kill a bear, but it was normal sized. As to the wildfire, there was none of that, I'm afraid." Martyn noticed Sarella blushing, and quickly changed the subject, trying to avoid awkwardness. "I'm sure your father is just trying to protect you. You mean a lot to him, and are his only heir. Have you asked Morgane to teach you anything about swordsmanship? I'm sure he would rest safer if he knew you could protect yourself even if she isn't around."

"You know, I couldn't agree more," she smiled playfully. "As for Morgane, father is paying her to watch over me. I'm afraid she'd be out of a job if he caught her spending her bought time crossing blades with me."

She gazed down at the young Dayne. "Say, Lord Martyn, could I have a look at your greatsword? I've never seen castle forged steel up close before."

Without waiting for a reply, she put her hands on the balcony railing and swung her tanned legs over its side, first one and then the other. She paid no mind to her dress or the view she was giving the courtyard below as she scrambled over the ledge of the balcony, shuffled along the outside of the railing, and found a place to climb down into the practice yard.

Martyn forced himself to look away from her slender legs, reminding himself that he was a lord sworn to her father. He slung his sword off his back and unsheathed it when she arrived at his side. "Be careful, the edges are incredibly sharp, a simple touch could cut you," he said as he handed it to Sarella.

Sarella accepted the blade gingerly, gasping quietly at the shining metal as it caught the rays of the Dornish sun. She turned it over in her hands carefully. The greatsword was almost as tall as she was.

"It's beautiful!" Her eyes lit up with excitement.

She took one last look at the blade before handing it back to Martyn delicately.

"It's a wonderful weapon," she told him. "I know you'll wield it with grace."

Martyn beamed. "Thank you, I will try my best. I have been trying to come up with a name for it, and my master at arms suggested Tempest, after the wind and storm. What do you think?" he said as he accepted the sword back. He hoped she didn't laugh at the suggestion, as he had actually come up with it himself but was too embarrassed to say so.

"Tempest," Sarella murmured, repeating the name aloud, her brow furrowed in thought. "A fine name for the sword of a Dornish warrior. I wish I could wield a weapon half as well as you do," she lamented.

"I'm glad you like it." Martyn's eyes sparkled with joy, glad that Sarella approved. "I could teach you some things if you like." He looked Sarella up and down, trying to decide on what weapon and fighting style would suit her best.

"You would? I - I would love that, Martyn!"

Martyn was lost in thought for another moment, then looked up. "Ah, yes of course. I'm thinking a spear would suit you well. I have some experience with it and can teach you the basics. The spear is for quick and lithe warriors; it is about speed and agility, not strength. Footwork is as important as skill with the spear. What do you think?"

Sarella grinned. "My only question is when can we start?"

"Right now."

Martyn pushed Sarella, causing her to stumble backwards. "Lesson one - footwork and movement. You have to be steady on your feet. If you fall, you're dead. If you stumble, you're dead. If you let someone sweep your feet, you're dead."

His voice was commanding, yet gentle as well. Martyn placed one foot slightly farther forward than the other and leaned forward. "This is the stance you want. Try pushing me over."

Sarella tried, but Martyn didn't even shift his feet.

"Now you try."

Sarella mimicked Martyn's stance, and when Martyn pushed her this time, she didn't move.

"Good. Now you have to learn to move in this position. Come out of it and your opponent will take advantage and you'll be dead. Always keep your body towards your opponent. Move one foot at a time. Never even think about moving your head, it is what keeps your balance intact. I'm your opponent. Go!"

Martyn, unarmed, started to walk around Sarella, inspecting her stance, impressed with her quick progress and smooth movements. Quick as a snake Martyn softly tapped Sarella on her neck. "You're dead. Work on your speed and moving in this position until you can run in it, leap and land in it, roll and stand up in it. Tomorrow, I'll teach you how to use a spear."

Sarella grinned. "The Lord of Starfall is teaching the Princess of Dorne how to fight like a warrior."

She beamed with excitement. In truth, she was a bit more excited about the idea of spending more time with handsome Martyn than she was about learning how to wield a weapon.

She reached out and squeezed his hand, "Thank you, Martyn," she said, her smile soft. She allowed her grip to linger, locking her eyes with his own, before releasing his hand and turning to leave the courtyard.

She called over her shoulder, "I will see you here tomorrow, then!"

**\- AESLYN -**

The feast in the Great Hall had only grown since Lord Loren's departure and several additional courses were served before he returned again. Arbor Gold and Dornish Red flowed steadily from three large casks and no lord's chalice stood empty for long, especially not Damon Lannister's.

The heir to Casterly Rock and Aeslyn Targaryen sat at the head of the table, conversing for the first time. Or at least, Aeslyn _tried _to converse with her soon to be husband. Damon seemed to find his cup more interesting, as he poured himself drink after drink while the steady hum of voices filled the air and mixed with the sounds of musicians and singers alike.

"Have you ever been to a wedding, my lord?" Aeslyn asked, placing a smooth pale hand over his.

He didn't draw away but nor did he look at her as he nodded sullenly, staring longingly towards the doors.

She glanced at her lap for a moment, wondering what she was doing wrong that he seemed so uninterested in her. Aeslyn turned heads everywhere she went, and she was unaccustomed to wanting for a man's attention.

"Are you nervous, my lord?" she asked, her smile faltering. She spoke her next words with hesitancy, and her cheeks reddened. "I am a bit nervous, myself, mostly for what comes, well, _after_ the vows are spoken..."

Damon looked over at her with a confused frown but before he could reply, Lord Loren Lannister's voice echoed throughout the Great Hall, drawing the attention of all those present and quickly bringing the room to silence.

"My lords and ladies," he called. "Damon Lannister and Aeslyn Targaryen will now rise for the exchanging of the cloaks."

He approached the table where his son and soon-to-be daughter sat, two cloaks draped over an arm. Aeslyn stood gracefully as he walked towards them, the folds of her scarlet silk gown cascading towards the floor. Damon nearly knocked over his chalice when he rose to his feet, but caught the cup quickly and straightened it on the table.

Casterly Rock had a Sept and marriages were generally made between the statue of the Mother and the Father, but as a short, shriveled man in long grey robes carrying a wooden staff came hobbling along behind Lord Loren, it became apparent that the ceremony was to take place right there in the Great Hall.

"Does he think I'm going to run?" Aeslyn thought she heard Damon mutter, glancing at the guards flanking the doors.

Loren handed the heir one of the cloaks from his arm, a magnificent, flowing piece made of soft lamb's wool dyed a deep red. Upon the cloak was emblazoned the sigil of House Lannister, a lion roaring proudly in all its golden glory.

"The cloak of House Lannister," Loren presented solemnly, "Passed down through our family for generations. And for you, Lady Aeslyn, to replace the cloak of your father which we presently lack." Turning, he presented Aeslyn with the second cape, silk of a deep obsidian upon which had been hurriedly stitched the sigil of House Targaryen.

The two fastened the cloaks around their necks, Damon in Lannister red and Aeslyn in pure black, and the Septon shooed them hurriedly from their places until they stood in front of the table.

"As Lady Aeslyn has no relatives in attendance, Ser Eddrick Lannet will be removing her cloak for the ceremony," Loren stated.

Ser Eddrick stepped forward, a portly man dressed in his best. The ladies and lords of the hall tittered as he undid the cloak from around Aeslyn's neck and then returned to his seat, flashing Aeslyn an apologetic smile on the way.

As per tradition, Damon unwrapped the one from about his shoulders and Aeslyn turned, allowing him to fasten it around her own. The cloak of red and gold flashed as he tied the clasp and Aeslyn turned proudly, purple irises glittering in the torchlight as she gazed into Damon's eyes and said, "With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband."

"With this kiss, I pledge my love," Damon replied, glancing hesitantly at his father, "and take you for my lady and wife." He leaned forward, and the two kissed.

The septon raised his staff and cried out, "Here in the sight of gods and men, I do solemnly proclaim Damon of House Lannister and Aeslyn of House Targaryen to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."

_"Now off to be bedded!"_ A shout called out from amongst the lords and ladies, and the cry was soon taken up by the rest of the hall. _"Off to be bedded!"_

Men swarmed up to Aeslyn and women to Damon, poking and prodding them off towards their bedding chamber, clothing and jokes flying as they made their way there.

Once the doors closed and the yelling and shouting finally faded away, the newly named Aeslyn Lannister stood in the moonlight that spilled through the window of the dark bedchamber; her supple pale skin somehow became even paler within the night's glow. Nervously, she peeked over her shoulder at the man who had just become her husband.

_What do I do...?_ she thought to herself as she stood there awkwardly with her back to him. She weighed whether she should go to him, or if she should turn around and uncover herself with her hands and show him what he had claim to for the rest of their lives.

She began to tremble as she grew cold and she finally turned around to face him. Her hands remained covering her breasts, her nipples hardening beneath her hand and arm, as her other hand stayed guardedly over her womanhood.

"Da- my lord...?" Her voice trembled when she spoke, barely above a whisper. She looked into his eyes, then her gaze slowly began to drift down his naked body. She had never seen a man nude in her life.

Butterflies in her stomach began to flutter and she felt the tug of desire. She wanted him to touch her, but she didn't know how to make him do so. Instead, she stood there awkwardly in front of him, like a scared girl who was about to bed for the first time.

She felt his gaze fall over every inch of her body, from her toes to the top of her head, where her long white hair somehow managed to remain mostly pinned back - albeit sloppily now - during the traditional bedding ceremony, when the lords in attendance had torn the rest of her clothing from her body.

And with what eagerness they did so. No one in any of the Seven Kingdoms or all of Essos would deny the Lady Targaryen's beauty. As the young Lannister heir drank in the curves of her slender and lithe body, his anxieties about their sudden and surprise marriage and the schemes of his father began to melt away into something else, something more urgent, a feeling more primal - lust.

He took a few steps forward slowly, until he stood just inches from his bride. Without moving his eyes from her body, Damon lifted his hand and took her left one in his own, gently moving it to her side, so that she was no longer covering her breasts. She shivered at his touch and goosebumps formed on her smooth white skin. Her chest rose and fell with her breathing, which was becoming less and less even with every passing second. He stepped closer and leaned down to press his forehead against her own.

Aeslyn was silent, still covering her womanhood protectively with her other hand. Damon could hear her breathing, even over the faint sounds of music and merriment from the wedding feast carrying on without them, nearby. Continuing to press her arm against her side, he moved swiftly to her other hand, grasping her by the wrist. When he went to pull it away, she hesitated a moment and her arm stiffened. He paused and looked up, his emerald eyes locking with her own. Without breaking eye contact, he tugged at her hand again, this time more forcefully, and she relented. He pinned both her arms at her side, leaving her naked body completely exposed.

Damon gazed down at her figure and sighed. In the torchlight of the wedding feast, her skin was the color of the flesh of an apple. Now, naked and shivering in his bedchamber, her body was paler than the the glow of the moon that softly illuminated the room.

Keeping his forehead still pressed against her own, he let go of her arms and lifted one hand to brush a loose piece of hair from her delicate face. His other hand found her jeweled hair clip and tugged it out gently, sending waves of silvery white tresses tumbling down her back.

"You're cold," he told her, rubbing his thumb against her arm gently, feeling the telltale prickles of a chill. The fine white hair on her arms stood up. She appeared so small it seemed as though he could wrap his fingers around her entire arm and have them meet on the other side.

"I can fix that," he promised. He wrapped an arm around her waist and yanked her suddenly against his body, then took her mouth with his own.

When at long last she broke away from his lips, she pressed her forehead to his once again. Her voice was quiet and shook as she spoke. "Damon, I ask you please be careful with me. Will you tell me what I should do...?"

"My lady, I will try to be gentle." She was surprised to see him grinning now, a mischievous glint in his green eyes. He hoisted her up off the ground and held her against him. She was as light as a feather in his arms and felt as comfortable to hold as the hilt of his sword.

"I won't need to tell you what to do," he murmured. He kissed all along her collarbone, then up to her jaw line, and finally found her mouth again, when he pulled away suddenly. He looked into her deep purple eyes and saw that they were clouded with desire, anticipation, and a bit of fear.

_So the dragon has become a lamb…_

"You will know what to do," he assured her with a sly smile.

Damon turned and carried Aeslyn over to the great four post bed in the center of the room and set her down gingerly atop the many linens and furs. The bedchamber was decked in the finest furniture and decor that the gold of House Lannister could buy. Heavy crimson drapes framed the giant windows and delicately embroidered tapestries depicting springtime scenes decorated the stone walls. No torches were lit, but the moonlight sufficed. A breeze blew in through the open windows and caused the young Targaryen to shiver.

Damon knelt on all fours over his bride, gazing down at her nubile body. Flat on her back, her now tangled hair splayed out beneath her head, contrasting with the burgundy silk sheets on the bed. He traced a finger carefully from just beneath her chin, down her throat, along her chest between the mounds of her breasts. He could feel her heart thumping in her chest. He paused for a minute and smiled at her, then continued over her stomach, finally arriving between her legs.

Aeslyn gasped and shuddered as his hand reached her womanhood, arching her back beneath him. Damon looked down at her face, pausing for a moment.

"I can't promise this won't hurt," he said, as if to give one final warning, "And once we start, I can't promise that I'll be able to stop."

"Then don't."

She yelped when he entered her, and grasped a fistful of his golden hair in one hand and sank the fingernails of her other into his back. It was more painful than she had anticipated, and she found herself squinting her eyes shut and soon she was counting down the seconds and minutes until it was over. He held her close to his chest and she could feel the warmth of his body as she clung to him tightly, trying to remind herself of the duties of her sex.

_It could be worse. Had my father still lived, who knows who he would have sold me to._

In Westeros, it was not uncommon for a noble woman to be married within a year of her flowering. Aeslyn, however, was almost of an age with her new husband and her marriage was of her own volition, unlike that of so many other highborn women.

_It will get better in time,_ she assured herself. _He will one day become the Warden of the West and the Lord of the wealthiest house in all of Westeros, and I will be its Lady. I will no longer live in shame and exile. I will have power._

Power the Targaryens hadn't seen in centuries, she knew.

_Father thought the redemption of our name lie in Danae, but _I _am the head of our house._

When he finished, Damon released her suddenly and she fell back onto the bed, dizzy and with a throbbing ache between her thighs. Panting heavily, he collapsed on his stomach beside her.

A gust of wind blew through the open window again, disturbing the drapes and rustling some papers scattered on top of a side table, sending them to the floor. She didn't shiver this time. Her body was on fire. Her very blood felt as if it were wildfire.

"You're... bleeding..." Aeslyn told him between her own panting, nodding towards his back, which was covered in small bloody tracks from where she had sank her fingernails.

"So are you," Damon replied, his voice muffled by the sheets he rested his face against.

Aeslyn looked down at her body, her bare chest rising and falling dramatically with every labored breath. Sure enough, her thighs were stained with blood. She gazed over at the man who was now her husband, but he had his face turned away from her. He seemed exhausted, and a slight smile played on her lips as she realized her body had been the cause of his pleasure. Aeslyn gently sidled up to Damon and lifted his arm and wrapped it around her shoulders.

"Damon, I need to speak with you on an urgent matter... It's rather important to me, and it involves my family…"

"Oh?" Damon mumbled sleepily. "Is something wrong?"

"Well… not yet," Aeslyn nestled back into his chest and thought over her next words carefully, "Family can be such a complicated thing…"

"Family is everything," he murmured in response, dreamily repeating a phrase he was told often, untangling himself from her arms and rolling onto his side with a yawn.

"Well, yes…" she said, suddenly cool without the warmth of his body against hers. She drew the furs up to her chin. "And yet at times it can be quite… burdensome. My house is known for its ambitions. Ambition often results in… well, in competition, I suppose. Yes, that's the right word for it."

She listened to his breathing as she stared across the dark room into nothingness. "My dear, sweet sister Danae… she is ambitious indeed. Our father always favored her… He used to call her his little dragon. He never called me such a thing. He lavished all his attention and praise on her, and it went straight to her head. She thinks herself a clever girl. I am the head of House Targaryen, and I see the envy in her eyes. She would scheme my birthright straight from under me…"

Aeslyn paused, as if suddenly realizing his silence.

"Damon?"

She rolled over to face him, only to see that he was fast asleep.

**\- ULRICH -**

The guard with the eye-patch drove a rough kick into the ribs of the prisoner, his metal-capped boots winding him. The other guard, the tall one with the Braavosi accent, picked him up by the scruff of his collar and threw him down on the bench in the cell. The knight smashed through the it, and splinters flew everywhere.

He tried to pull himself back to his feet, but another kick to his stomach made him collapse again. Groaning, he spit out some blood as the men dragged him through to another cell, throwing him to the ground inside. The door made horrible creaking noises as it is slammed shut, and he was left on the mucky floor.

Hours passed, and soon enough they fed him. A young Dornishman came in. He could only have been about ten and seven years old. He carried a bowl of soup, and placed it on the desk.

"Sword of the Morning," he said. "My ma would tell us stories of the strength and grace and might of the Sword of the Morning, when I was younger. My brothers lapped it up, them being young when you were given Dawn, yet..."

He went to leave, but paused at the door.

"All I see is a broken man. You've been outclassed, stripped of your armor and Dawn and now...Now you're just a man. Not the hero you're supposed to be."

He left, and shut the door gently. Sitting up, the prisoner placed his head in his hands.

The captive was woken later by the sound of his cell door being opened, and before his eyes even opened he was pulled from the bench he slept on and dragged out of the room. They took him to another chamber with a table with bloodstained strappings on it. His eyes widened, and they threw him to the floor in front of it and then pulled his limp right arm into one of the braces, locking it in place. He couldn't pull his hand out, no matter how he tried, and panic registered on his face as one of the men pulled out flaying tools.

"The Bolton isn't here yet, but we'll get you started for him!" cackled the Bravosi with the tools, while the other man, a Summer Islander, held the arm in place. The knight pulled and pulled, his whole body straining, but he couldn't remove himself from the straps.

The Braavosi started with the smallest finger, the one furthest to the right. The prisoner expected it to be painful, but he hadn't prepared for such agony. He yelled involuntarily and tears streamed from his eyes as the skin on his finger was slowly peeled off.

_The Seven, Rh'llor, the Drowned God, whoever's listening... Please..._ he thought, as he struggled to retain consciousness.

And then, through the salt of his tears and the fiery pain of his finger, he spotted something. A small, sharp, steel dagger dangled from the belt of the Summer Islander. The man's face was scrunched up in concentration as he watched his friend cut away at the knight's flesh. Reaching out with his left hand, the prisoner snatched it from his belt. Before he had time to react, the captive slit his stomach open, slicing through the cloth garb he wore.

He brought the dagger up and plunged it through the hand of the flayer, next. The man screamed, and when the knight pulled the dagger out again he bolted to the door, clutching his bleeding hand. He was able to shout for the guards but by the time the words escaped his throat, the captive cut had through his straps. He threw the dagger in his direction and it embedded itself in his back. The man slumped to the floor.

The prisoner could hear the guardsmen running up the stairway towards him, and so he turned and fled. He ran up the tower, further and further up the stairs until he reached the top. Nowhere to go, the guards at his back, he desperately stuck his head out the window, wishing for water below him. Looking down, he saw only stone.

_Only death._

His mind raced. He tried to formulate a plan for escape, but dark thoughts crept into his head.

_What is the point? Dawn lies at the bottom of the sea. A Black Dragon will sit the Iron Throne, and those who would call me hero are now scattered to the wind, all because I was too stupid, too brash, too headstrong… all because I came here... I am the worst Sword of the Morning there ever was. I have failed._

He gazed down at the stones that awaited him below.

_Only death._

**\- THE DRAGON AT THE WALL -**

The news spread throughout the Watch like wildfire. Lord Commander Tully was dead, after having jumped from the Wall. His black brothers held a funeral, like they had held for so many others, without a body. Balon Selmy acted as the primary speaker for the man who took him in and taught him what it meant to be a man of the Night's Watch.

"...He was a good Lord Commander," he was saying somewhat awkwardly. Balon was never great with words, and he tugged nervously at the collar of his heavy woolen coat. "Taught me everything he knew, he did. He was a gentle man and an honorable one. He always had a warm smile and an even warmer bowl of corn soup for anyone who knocked at his chamber doors, no matter the hour. Of course, his cooking wasn't exactly rivaling that of any nobleman's kitchen, heh," he gave an uncomfortable laugh, and a few of the men standing vigil at the service managed weak smiles.

"Well, um, I suppose that he will be missed greatly, and uh, remembered by all," he managed to stammer before bowing his head and adding somberly. "And now his Watch has ended."

The brothers replied in unison, "And now his watch has ended."

Snow fell seemingly without interruption in the week that followed. The roof on the stable sagged and some of the more nimble boys were instructed to climb atop and clear it off before the whole thing collapsed. Horses and mules were precious to the watch, especially during the winter when the paths grew too slick for a man's boots.

A fire was burning in the hearth when the crows met in the Shield Hall of Castle Black to elect a new Lord Commander. A few names had already been put forth, including that of the First Ranger, when the doors to the hall were flung open and a tardy Rhaegar Targaryen strode in.

"And now his watch has ended," Rhaegar declared to no one in particular, " And a new era is beginning."

A few of the men nodded their greetings to the silver haired crow; others rolled their eyes. The men of the Watch seemed almost evenly divided in their opinions of the Targaryen. There hadn't been a dragon at the Wall in two hundred years, and while sworn brothers gave up their titles and house names, there was no mistaking Rheagar's heritage.

He was dashing like all Targaryens and arrogant, too. From the way he spoke to the way he carried himself, Rhaegar reminded everyone around him that he was cut from a different cloth than any thief or rapist or bastard. Some men, young boys especially, were impressed by his lordly airs and awestruck by his dragon, however runty Vaellon was.

Others found the man to be unbearably pretentious.

Rhaegar took a seat at a bench alongside Baelik Mormont.

"Any brother who can stop the others from breaching the wall has my vote," the man was saying. "The true campaign isn't political; it's located in the north."

Balon Selmy voiced his agreement. "Which is why we need to pick the best leader the watch has to help defend the Wall. Bear," he said, calling the ranger by his nickname, "do you think you have what it takes to lead the Night's Watch? You are, after all, the First Ranger."

Baelik nodded solemnly. "I have what it takes. Just don't expect me to sit inside a tower all day reading papers. I belong out there in the cold with a sword in my hand. Aye, but I'll lead."

Rheagar looked at the First Ranger with thinly veiled disgust, and snorted, "This is why you are First Ranger, and not the Lord Commander." His gaze was icy cold.

"Nice of you to join us, dragon." Baelik met the hard stare with a laugh. "You're right, Lord Commander Holster merited the position far more than I. And if losing another election means that I will spend more time out in the field, then I'll gladly let the position pass to the next best candidate. Cast your vote against me, dragon boy. Like I said, my place is out there."

Aron Sand stood across the room and raised his mug of ale, "I nominate Rhaegar Targaryen!"

There were a few murmurs from the crowded room, and hushed whispers. All eyes turned to Rhaegar, who slowly stood from the bench. He lifted his hand for silence. The gesture brought more eye rolling from some of the older and more grizzled rangers, but the younger boys were all watching the Targaryen excitedly.

Rhaegar stood dramatically, moving his violet eyes across the crowd of men in black. "This is not something I take lightly," he spoke, his voice echoing in the quiet chamber, "I know that we give up our house allegiances when we take our vows, but something is needed here at the Wall that I am in the best position to give - fire and blood."

The room erupted into conversation, and the days of voting that followed were tense. Rhaegar gained a third of the vote easily from his popularity amongst the younger boys alone, but the First Ranger Baelik had decades of experience over the Targaryen, and the older men of the watch knew it.

The race was neck and neck for a time but then on the third day, Vaellon managed to track down and kill a group of wildlings attempting to climb an isolated part of the Wall. It was the first time the dragon had done anything useful, and the first time anyone had seem him actually shoot fire from his mouth. Many took it as a sign of Rhaegar's prophecy about fire and blood come true, and on the fourth day he was declared the victor.

_Fire and blood,_ he thought as he climbed the stairs to the Lord Commander's tower at Castle Black. _I will show the whole realm the meaning of both..._

**\- DAMON -**

The gulls were crying over the harbor of Lannisport and the Sunset Sea, and countless smallfolk hurried about their business in the port town where the River Road, Gold Road, and Ocean Road met. In the background, rising above the thick morning haze, loomed the great fortress of Casterly Rock carved into stone atop mines of gold.

The air smelled of salt and sea and in certain parts of the castle one could hear the sound of thundering waves crashing through the tunnels at the base of the mountain and echoing off their stone walls. It was quiet, however, in chambers of Lord Loren Lannister, but for the sound of his oldest son's complaining.

A fire burned low in the hearth. Lord Loren had his back to Damon as he stood before the great stone fireplace. He was looking up at a blade on the wall above it, displayed splendidly against a red oak backdrop with black etching burned into an intricate and swirling pattern around its border. The sword was Widow's Wail, the ancestral Valyrian steel blade of House Lannister, and the last man to wield it had been Loren's brother Tyrius.

The Warden of the West watched the red ruby eyes of the golden lion glimmer in the fire's glow.

"Am I not owed some sort of explanation?" Damon was asking. His voice sounded strained, pleading and desperate. "Why would you do such a thing? Don't I get a say in who I marry? Or when I marry? Or _if_ I marry?"

His last question was one of the heir's favorite threats, but it held no weight now. The cloaks were exchanged, the vows spoken, and the marriage consummated. There was no going back.

_I should not have slept with her,_ Damon knew. _I could have gotten out of this._

But his thoughts had been clouded by wine and when the beautiful and naked maiden stood before him in the bedchambers his willpower had vanished.

Loren's face was impassive as he stared at the sword above the mantle. When he spoke, it was in tones so icy that even the fire in the hearth could not have melted them.

"Will you make me repeat myself," he asked through gritted teeth, though his voice made it apparent that the question was rhetorical. Lord Loren felt he had given Damon enough of a reason the night of the wedding when he introduced his son to his betrothed. _"You are the heir to this kingdom and this lordship and it is high time you started behaving like it."_

Damon stood glaring at his father's back. "But a Targaryen? Have you gone completely mad?"

The sword seemed to take up the whole room to Loren. It hung there on the wall, glittering against its dark wooden backdrop, looking down on the two of them and judging them both.

"Lady Aeslyn is a beautiful woman," Loren said plainly. "You'd think someone with your _leisurely pursuits_ would show a bit more gratitude for arranging such a match. Every man in Westeros would be happy to call her his bride."

"Then let _them_ marry her! Do you truly expect me to be grateful for this? You've wed me to a shamed and exiled house. You think marriage is just a fine way to slight the someone, is that it? Is that why you married my mother, as well? The sister of a king's dead enemy?"

"I will not suffer the criticisms of an arrogant and foolish drunk, even if you do bear my name," Loren replied evenly, though the disdain seethed through his words, "Besides, you are not the only child of mine to be wed."

His remark gave Damon pause. Thaddius was in the Kingsguard, and sworn to take no bride. That left only his youngest sister as to whom his father could be referring.

"Ashara? She is ten and six, that is far too-"

The Warden turned to face his son at last and leveled his cold hard stare at his oldest child, silencing him at once. "She is already wed, and I refuse to waste more time indulging you in a discussion of matters in which your opinion is irrelevant."

Damon was furious, but he kept his mouth shut. He would defy his father openly in his small council and make japes to his face in front of his siblings, but when there was no audience and it was just him and the hard, appraising gaze of Loren, he knew not to yank the lion's tail.

"Who is this man?" Damon asked quietly, breaking the tense silence between them after a time. He glanced at the floor when he said it, unable to hold Loren's gaze for long.

"Aerion Blackfyre," came the unexpected reply.

The surprise and confusion was evident on Damon's face. He had never been as poised as his father.

"As I said," Loren continued, "We haven't the time for your idle conversation. You are riding to King's Landing on the morrow, to make this man a king."

"A king," Damon repeated. He looked at his father with a mixture of incredulity and annoyance. "The realm already _has_ a king. The Baratheons-"

"The Baratheons," Loren snorted. "Tell me what kind of kings they are, Damon. Tell me of the accomplishments of good King Harys, of his father Renly and his father Orys before him."

Loren turned away from his son and stared back at the sword over the hearth, the rubies and jewels in the scabbard glowing in the dwindling light of the flames beneath it. Weak winter sunlight was beginning to break through the fog and creep into the chambers through an open window and the night's fire had been abandoned, left to die out, leaving the room with a slight chill not unlike the one in Lord Loren's voice.

"Orys Baratheon preferred drink to diplomacy and his treatment of the ironborn is what led to the second Greyjoy Rebellion. He plunged the realm into chaos and dragged half of Westeros into his bloody war, and if it weren't for him your uncle would still be alive."

Widow's Wail stared down at the two of them, imposing and menacing.

"And Renly Baratheon," Loren continued, his voice tinged with an anger nursed over decades. "Who died on a hunting trip, gored to death by a pig. A fitting end for a man who lived like one. His son continues the gluttonous legacy of his house, with his constant feasting and his winter tourneys. His small council is filled with his foolish family - how long until they call our banners once more for a war they've started as a result of their own ignorance?"

Damon said nothing, and a long silence stretched between the father and his son. Loren seemed to be deep in some memory as he looked up at the sword above the mantle.

"You want me to ride tomorrow, you said," Damon spoke after a time.

When the Warden of the West replied, it was in a tone that relayed absolute certainty.

"Tomorrow."

**\- DANAE -**

An icy wind whipped the snow flurries about so that many never met the ground. It mattered not to those shoveling the path to the gates of Castle Black, however, as there was plenty of snow on the stone road needing to be removed already.

"Watch your step there," Balon Selmy said kindly as he escorted the strange visitor up to the maester's chambers. He was dressed all in black, and lead the traveler up to the tower.

Danae Targaryen stepped carefully up the icy stairs, her high leather boots struggling for a foothold. Her tattered hooded cloak was wrapped tightly about her small frame, and she used one hand to clutch it and keep the wind from whipping it away, and the other to steady herself along the stone railing.

James and Summer remained behind, enjoying a hot meal in a warm hall, much to Danae's envy.

"Here we are, then!" Balon announced after it seemed they had climbed for miles, pushing open the heavy wooden door at the top of the landing and delighting in the burst of heat that came from inside.

Danae was grateful for the warmth as well as she stepped into the chambers. She pulled down the hood of her cloak, revealing her long white blonde hair, and shook the snow from her clothing as best as she could.

Grand Maester Orin was inside, sitting before the fire burning in the hearth. His great black beard had even more gray in it than last she'd seen him, and his chain hung heavy over equally gray robes.

"Hello again, Grand Maester."

"Lady Danae," the older man stood and nodded as he retrieved a chair for her. "It is good to see you've arrived safely. Your cousin Rheagar traveled with me from Last Hearth. He is an odd young man, I must say."

He motioned to Balon Selmy who gave a small bow and exited the room while shutting the door behind him.

"Last news I've heard from the south tells me your sister was wed to one of the Lannisters," he said, sitting back down his his seat carefully. "Unfortunately, I believe she is now lost to our cause."

"_You see that man in Lannister armor? The one with the golden curls and eyes as bright as emeralds? That is Damon Lannister, and I plan to make him my husband shortly after this tournament."_

Aeslyn's words rang in Danae's ears as she sat in the dark, dreary maester's chambers of Castle Black.

"The Lord Commander received a raven from your sister before you arrived," Grand Maester Orin spoke again after a short time. He sifted through his pockets and pulled out a dirtied letter which he passed to Danae.

_Lord Commander Tully,_

_I wish to speak with Orin Baratheon and Danae Targaryen before they leave on their journey to Essos. I would much appreciate it if you would halt their journey. It is pertinent they be detained until I arrive at Castle Black with my guard from House Lannister. I only wish to say goodbye to my sweet sister, and wish her farewell on her journey. Would you deprive a lady that when it is the only family she had before she married? If you delay their voyage, I will be in your debt. As the saying goes, and everyone knows it, "a Lannister always pays her debts."_

_Lady Aeslyn Lannister_

Danae read through the letter several times before speaking. Her small hands folded the letter calmly, but rage seethed within her at Aeslyn's foolish actions and arrogant words.

"She throws away her bloodline so quickly for gold? Her words are _Fire and Blood_ not this poorly veiled threat about debts."

Danae tossed the letter back to the Grand Maester as she frowned and leaned back into her chair, thinking. "Aeslyn approaches the wall with a Lannister guard? I doubt that she wishes me to travel to Essos and return with all the glory that could have been hers if she were brave enough."

There was a long moment of silence before she stood suddenly and began to pace back and forth across the room. "Grand Maester, my father has told me since I was a young girl that Aeslyn was insane. I believe you may have observed her _eccentricities_ at the tourney? It is my belief that she travels to the wall to murder me and take my dragon, as she would not allow me any chance to return to Westeros with an army of my own."

Grand Maester Orin nodded. "It is my suspicion as well. Despite her obvious 'eccentricities'there is no denying that your sister has power now that she has married a Lannister. If she wants to see you dead, then as long as we stay in Westeros you are not safe."

Danae thought back on the Lannisters she had seen at court. Damon Lannister had a reputation for drinking and whoring and she could not imagine he was a man who would choose to marry Aeslyn. The marriage must have been arranged by his father.

_But why would Lord Loren Lannister choose to marry his first born son to the head of a house with such poor political standing?_

Danae finally stopped her pacing and turned to face the Grand Maester. He had been watching her every move closely, his dark eyes gleaming. The look in his eyes made her uneasy, but she pushed the feeling aside.

_I need him._

"There are only three dragon masters in Westeros, and neither Aeslyn or Rhaegar can be depended on to rebuild House Targaryen," Danae told him."I fear that Aeslyn fell into a den of lions and does not know what she is facing with the Lannisters, and though it has been many years since I've laid my eyes upon Rhaegar, he is sworn to the Watch now, and thus no longer wears our name."

The fire crackled in the hearth and one of the sticks snapped loudly and the log slid, letting forth a burst of flame that sent long shadows across the floor.

"The blood of the dragon has fallen from sitting the Iron Throne to trading cod with merchants and fishwives while my distant cousins hide themselves and Aeslyn and Rhaegar forsake their blood."

Danae approached the aging maester slowly, and leaned in closely to speak her next words. Her voice resonated with an authority never before heard from her lips.

"I am neither Lion nor Crow. I am Lady Danae Targaryen, and I am the last dragon. It is time for you to aid me now, Grand Maester Orin, in becoming _Queen_ Danae Targaryen."

The Grand Maester smiled mysteriously and nodded. "Then we shall leave at once for Eastwatch-By-The-Sea with a few members of my guard and your two companions. We have the funds to find a captain to take us to Valyria."

Before Danae could speak, the door to the tower swung open, and a breathless man with long hair as pale as her own strode in.

"Rhaegar," she said, frowning in confusion. Her cousin looked different since she had seen him last. He was dressed in black from head to toe, but the fringes of his cloak were stitched with crimson thread and he wore a red broach at his throat. He was a decade older than her at nearly twenty and nine, but still had the poise and the handsome look of a Targaryen.

_But he is not a Targaryen,_ Danae thought to herself, _Not since he took those vows._

"I am going with you," he said when he caught his breath, a devious smile on his face and a baleful glint in his violet eyes.

"Going where?" Danae stared at him, her confusion melting into annoyance. "Have you been listening outside the door? Were you eavesdropping on us, cousin, like some nosy child?"

"Valyria," he answered, ignoring the slight. "I'm going with you to Valyria."

The glow from the hearth was reflected in their matching amethyst eyes as the two cousins stood and faced each other.

"No, you are not," Danae said.

Rhaegar was undaunted. "It has been many years, dear cousin, and you are not who I remember. You are most certainly not who I was expecting."

"I'm not?" Danae asked with sarcastic surprise. "Who were you expecting? I am sorry, _dear cousin, _but we do not require your assistance. You are a man of the night's watch stationed at Castle Black. Thank you for your offer, but you must stay here."

Rhaegar stepped forward. "Fire and blood," he said with his usual dramaticism. "This realm hasn't seen enough of either in far too long." He inched closer to her. "You and I, cousin, we will show them what it means to be a dragon. I will take my beast across the narrow sea and come back with an army and then take the Iron Throne with the words of our house, and you…" he reached up to touch her face, "...you will be my bride and my queen."

Danae caught his wrist inches from her face.

"I will be nothing of yours," she said.

The edges of Rhaegar's lips began to curl into a sinister grin. "I was searching for something but now I need look no longer. I've found the one who was promised."

"Look upon your own reflection." Danae replied, releasing his hand. "For you were promised to the Night's Watch. Now, _get… out."_

Rhaegar seemed startled by her words and his smile faded. He looked from the Grand Maester to her and started to stutter out a reply before Danae leveled her hard gaze on him once more.

"I said _now._"

He took a few steps backwards before turning around and marching to the door, swinging it open and storming through the threshold. He nearly toppled over Balon Selmy as the sworn brother was about to knock and enter. Rhaegar didn't bother to apologize, and disappeared into the cold winter's air as Selmy stepped inside.

"Is it true you're going to be heading to Valyria?" he asked the Grand Maester hesitantly, wringing his hands.

"It is true," Orin replied. "We will brave the Smoking Sea and travel to the Doom, but I am afraid our business there is our own and I cannot discuss this any further. I hope I have your pardon, brother Selmy."

"I'm not an idiot," the crow replied, determination in his voice. "I have my own guesses as to why you are going there. Permit me one question, if you will."

The Grand Maester looked to Danae and raised an eyebrow before turning back to the brother and nodding. "Alright then, lad."

"Is it true that there's magic in Valyria? Spells and powers and that sort of thing?" he looked nervous as he asked the question, as though worried they might laugh at him, but the Grand Maester smiled warmly.

"That is true as well," he said. "Magic that can kill even the strongest man, and make castles and kingdoms fall, and grow lizards into great dragons. Magic of great power, that any maester worth the Valyrian steel link about his neck would pay any price to see."

His hands reached for his collar, and he fingered the chain carefully.

"Is that why you're going, then?" Balon asked, glancing between the beautiful Targaryen girl and the old measter. "To get a dragon?"

"No, we do not go searching for dragons. We already have one right here in our presence."

Grand Maester Orin turned looked up at Danae and smiled.

**\- THE YOUNGER ROSE -**

It had taken some time to break camp, what with twenty thousand men.

King Harys was marching for Highgarden to muster the Reach's bannermen and assault Oldtown, certain that the Lady Maude Tyrell was within its walls. Yet there were those among his party who were not fully convinced. One of them was Benjen Tyrell, Maude's younger brother of ten and eight. He was shorter than Troy, and his golden brown hair was a bit less kempt, like the beard he wore on his chin.

He rode mounted through the emptying camp as the tents were being dismantled, one hand holding the reins and the other resting on the pommel of his blade as he surveyed the busy scene. Fires were still burning. With winter's chill still gripping the Reach, they would be the last thing to vanish, stomped out only as the men were on the verge of marching.

Troy was hot headed, and always had been. Benjen was not surprised to learn that it was he who caused the King's party to be ejected from Lord Hightower's city after breaking the sacred Guest Right. Perhaps it was best that Ser Thaddius Lannister was escorting him back to King's Landing, though Benjen held no love for the knight of the Kingsguard.

Benjen thought House Lannister to be a house of opportunism and greed, equally renowned for its lack of honor as its wealth. Thaddius Lannister was one of the youngest men ever chosen for the Kingsguard, and people called him a prodigy when it came to his prowess with a weapon. But Benjen found his arrogant attitude and the dirty tricks he used when fighting to be unbecoming for a knight, and especially one who held the highest honor attainable by serving the King himself.

That was one reason for the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach when he heard Ralf's answer to his question about his sister's whereabouts.

"Mellara? No, m'lord," he said, looking up at the Tyrell lad, "I haven't seen her since this morning. Ser Lannister came by to see her. They left together, that a ways." He pointed north, towards the woods. "I overheard him saying that your brother wanted to see her off before they left for the capital."

"Thank you, Merryweather," he said, tugging the reins of his mare and setting off in the direction the soldier had pointed.  
Sending the Tyrell heir back to the capital instead of allowing him to join in the attack on Oldtown was the worst sort of punishment the King could give his brother. Benjen knew that Troy was probably seething over it, and having Ser Thaddius as his escort only added insult to the injury.

The frosted grass crunched beneath his horse's feet as the mare trotted along. When he reached the narrow road at the edge of the woods, Benjen found the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, though he could not say for what reason.

The path snaked north through the elm grove like a ribbon, twisting and turning. The dirt was packed and well trodden from the arrival of the King's twenty thousand, and it would be beaten down some more when they left in the afternoon. Benjen made out the hoof prints of two horses headed opposite the rest and followed them cautiously.

He was surprised to see the tracks lead off the path after a time, and into the woods. Benjen shifted in his saddle, anxiety gnawing at his stomach. He led his horse off the road and into the trees as a hawk circled overhead, its great rust colored wings casting a shadow through the leafless trees and onto the ground in front of Benjen.

He heard voices in the distance, though he could not make out what they were saying, and spurred his mount on nervously. His horse stepped carefully over tangled tree roots and fallen branches, and at last he found himself in a small clearing of sorts.

He noticed Thaddius immediately. His milky white Kingsguard armor practically sparkled in the low winter sun, and the pale cape clasped around his shoulders looked like flowing moonlight, standing out in sharp contrast to the dull browns and grays of the trees around him. But Benjen wasn't looking at the knight's armor; his eyes were fixed on the dagger that the Lannister held against his sister's throat.

Mellara's eyes were wide with fear, and her small hands were clutching the knight's armored forearm as he held her close against him. He could see her chest rising and falling as she sucked in short, panicked breaths.

"Benjen!" Thaddius called to him pleasantly, "How good of you to join us! Oh, and you brought a horse. Wonderful! We will be needing that."

Benjen drew his sword and his horse stamped its feet and whinnied nervously beneath him.

"Ah-ah, not so fast there, young Rose," Thaddius grinned, pressing the point of the blade against the pale flesh of Mellara, eliciting a startled yelp. A small droplet of blood appeared where the steel met skin, and slowly rolled down her neck.

"Benjen, don't!" she cried.

"Drop your sword, Tyrell," Thaddius said, "or I'll slit your sister's throat and you and your brother can ride with her corpse the whole way to King's Landing."

It was then that Benjen took note of Troy. His older brother was bound and gagged, propped up against a tree to the right of the scene. His face was bruised and bloody, and dead leaves clung to his matted golden brown hair. He was glaring at the Lannister, his eyes filled with hatred.

Benjen slowly extended his arm to his side and dropped his sword, the iron blade landing with a dull thump against the ground.

"Now then," Thaddius said, a sinister smile on his comely young face, "Let's not waste our daylight. It's a long way back to the capital."

**\- AEMON -**

The sound was the faintest of _clinks, _a scraping of steel on stone. _Nothing, nothing_, Aemon breathed, but the gold cloak was turning, crossbow in hand. _Gods forgive me,_ he thought as he slit the man's throat. Steel struck bone, and lifeblood pooled out crimson as Aemon lowered the guard onto the moonlight cobblestones, hunching atop the thrashing form until it lay still. _Gods forgive me..._

Ser Lomas and the rest of Aemon's men emerged from the thick winter fog that clung to the merchant stalls of Fishmonger's Square. Above, a pale moon hung lifeless, shining down dimly on the streets of King's Landing. The commonfolk had retreated into their hovels long ago and Aemon knew that from the outer walls the Lannister host's campfires could be seen ablaze from the King's Gate to the Iron Gate. Throughout the city, their war drums could be heard beating through the night.

Aemon only had to nod for Lomas to take his ten men and steal away into the fog, this night had been weeks in planning and Lomas knew what was needed of him. They had ten men each, and there were eight gold cloaks stationed at the Mud Gate. King Harys in his pride had left the city barely strong enough to defend its own walls, whereas under any other circumstances Aemon would have expected to face a station of thirty men.

_But he was prideful, and foolish, _Aemon thought, _and a king should be neither. _Yet his mouth tasted like bile and in the back of his mind the word _turncoat _crashed over and over like some restless wave on a shore.

Ahead, the gatehouse loomed, a red stone giant squatting between the city and the quays. At Aemon's signal, eight of his men clung to the shadows and he continued forward with only two. He could only pray that Lomas and his men were in position.

"Ho! Who goes there?" a voice called out.

"Relief!" Aemon replied, thinking of the body he had left bleeding out in the moonlight. A man exited the gatehouse, short and stout with a sword at his hip and a torch held high in the air.

"I don't know you," the man said suspiciously, spitting a gob of phlegm onto the slick cobblestones.

"Aye, Godry Borrell means to keep fresh eyes on the walls."

The goldcloak eyed the three of them up and down and for a moment Aemon feared that the ruse was up, but the man only spat once more.

"Bout time," he said. Turning he called into the gatehouse. "Arnell, Jorry! Relief! Get your stinkin' hides out here!"

Arnell and Jorry barely gave Aemon and his men a glance before stepping around them and disappearing in the direction of Fishmonger's Square alongside the first gold cloak. The seven he'd left behind would deal with those three, Aemon knew, and it would be three that they would not have to face again when the Golden Company came through the Mud Gate.

The drums seemed to be beating ever louder and ever faster, thud-thudding in rhythm with his quickening heart. _They know, _he thought. _They can sense the blood to come. _Somewhere out there his wife's nephew waited, preparing to sack the city. _And I'm the fool letting the tide come in. _

When Lomas appeared with his men, Aemon knew that the two guards stationed at the gate were dead. _Two at the gate, three in the square, and three in the gatehouse. _

_Gods forgive me, _he thought.

His men gave the remaining gold cloaks quick deaths and when the bloody work was done, Aemon climbed the inner wall of the sanctum. From the topmost parapet the Blackwater looked like dragonglass and the yew wood bow that he'd hung across his back soon had an arrow notched on it's string.

"Torch," he ordered and Lomas stepped forward. With a hiss, the cloth and oil at the tip of the arrow caught and flames licked up the shaft.

"Gods forgive us all," Aemon said.

And the shaft arched out over the bay.

**\- VARYO -**

"A good night to take the bitch."

Yaro Brokensteel was a true man of Tyrosh, and the Tyroshi were never a subtle people. The sellsword stood beside the Golden Company's spymaster as they both followed the a streak of flame that rose and fell against the obsidian backdrop of the starless sky.

Varyo shot the man a harshly look from the corner of his eye.

"I only hope our friends are in place," he said before turning his gaze back towards the city. Its thick stone walls were barely visible in the dark of night, but the Red Keep towered just beyond them, soft pink stone illuminated by the glow of its torches. Yellow banners with a rearing black stag topped the parapets, but it was too dark to see them. They were merely flags of black cloth.

"I have no will to meet our gods tonight."

The Velaryon spoke with what he hoped was determination, but his mismatched eyes were red-rimmed and his face was raw. Once the fiery arrow doused itself in the black waters of the bay, he placed his half helm over his head and picked up his spear.

_Am I ready?_ he thought. _This will be my first battle without Rhaevo looking after me._

He laughed desperately and finished out loud, "And it shall be a poor one at that!"

The men were moving as soon as their boots hit the shore. True to what was promised, they found the Mud Gate open before them and the army swarmed into the capital like rats.

"You!" Varyo shouted, gesturing to one of his men. "Take fifty men and open the Lion's Gate, the Lannisters are waiting."

The rest of the sellswords made straight for the castle on Aegon's Hill, slaughtering the goldcloaks in their path like sheep.

The army did not stop to sack any of the storefronts or homes that they passed. There were thirty thousand hungry lions waiting outside the city who would lay claim to that honor.

Some of the city guard that they encountered tried to resist, but these men hadn't seen battle the way the Bright Banners had. The Essosi sellswords were at the steps of the castle within the hour and once they broke through the thick iron doors with their battering ram, Varyo led a small group of them to the throne room himself.

_This could all be a trap,_ the spymaster thought as the sounds of armored footsteps shattered the silence of the keep, _Is it really going to fall with such ease?_

The hour was late and the massive chamber was dark; the great glass dome above the iron seat was as black as coal. A few torches burned in sconces on the walls, casting distorted shadows across the stone floors.

"Capture the Hand! Capture the Kingsguard and the council!" Varyo barked, his voice echoing through the expansive hall. The Iron Throne loomed over the room as soldiers scurried off to obey their orders, dark and brooding, like some vicious monster, waiting to feast.

_Good gods! How can such a throne be sat?_

Varyo's voice trailed off in the presence of such a beast. The seat unnerved him.

_Is that really what we are fighting for? _

His thoughts were interrupted by the heavy sound of steel boots pounding the stone floors behind him. When Varyo whirled around he saw a dark haired man with olive skin, clad in dented armor.

"Your Grace," he spoke hesitantly.

Aerion Blackfyre strode past Varyo without so much as a glance. His gaze was fixated on the massive mess of sharpened iron at the top of two dozen steep and crooked stairs. His throne.

He climbed the stairs slowly, each footfall landing with a clang of metal that echoed noisily throughout the vast room. His long hair was tangled and fell about his shoulders gracelessly, but he exuded self assurance.

Varyo watched him in silence.

_He thinks himself worthy,_ he knew, watching the confidence with which the Blackfyre ascended.

When he reached the summit, Aerion sat down on the iron seat carefully and placed each of his arms on the armrests of the chair. A smirk spread across his face as he leaned back against the cold hard metal of a thousand swords, forged in dragon's breath so many centuries ago. The throne towered over the room and Varyo stood in its shadow, staring up at the Black Dragon.

_As much a dragon as I am a Dornishman._

"My titles."

Aerion's voice was deep and washed over the throne room like a tidal wave, enveloping the previous silence. Varyo frowned slightly at his words.

_Does he think that seat his right?_

"Your Grace…?"

"Say them," Aerion said. He still did not meet the spymaster's gaze, starting out past him across the great throne room. "Say my titles."

Varyo kept his face impassive but felt his jaw clench. He took two steps forward and looked up at the King, seated on his imposing chair of twisted iron.

"Aerion Blackfyre," he began, his voice unwavering. "First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, the True Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

Aerion smiled, a wide and sinister grin.


	3. Chapter 3

_Explanation: This fanfic follows the events of an ASOIAF role play still in progress at r/GameofThronesRP/_

**CHAPTER THREE**

**\- DAMON -**

The sound of countless beating drums rolled over the massive army like a thunderclap, and the torches burned brightly in the night. Thirty thousand Lannister troops clad head to toe in hard steel waited outside the Lion's Gate as the men from the Bright Banners pulled the heavy winch and raised the creaking iron portcullis slowly.

They formed a sea of silver beyond the walls of the city, standing with anxious anticipation, grasping their weapons, awaiting their final command from Damon Lannister atop his great white destrier. _This is what they tell me I was born for, _he thought to himself, looking out over the ocean of his father's men. _I hope they're right._

The winter night was black and the crimson and gold of his ornate armor glittered in what little light shone out from the torches illuminating the gate, the lions on the gardbraces snarling menacingly. A long cloak of red hung down from his shoulders, fastened to the pauldron with silver clasps. Gold were the embellishments on his scabbard, gold was the lion on his sigil, and gold was his hair as he faced the men with his helm tucked under one arm, his other hand clutching his blade unsheathed.

"THIS IS THE LION'S GATE!" he shouted, his voice booming, "AND _YOU_... ARE _LIONS!"_

A roar rose up from the thirty thousand as the men shouted and smashed their swords and shields together in reply. Their commander gazed out confidently over the mass of soldiers, their torches forming constellations in a sky made of thousands of metal men.

Damon pointed his sword towards the open gate. _"TAKE... YOUR... CITY!"_

The men rushed into King's Landing, knights thundering on horseback and a seemingly infinite wave of foot soldiers charging behind them. The army washed over the city like a tidal wave and Damon rode at the head of it. They flooded the narrow and winding streets. Gold Cloaks fell to the sword as they stood wielding their naked steel in defense of the capital. _Lambs for the slaughter._

The Lannister host rode right over them, splitting and dividing to conquer each winding street, burning, looting, and slaughtering anything in their paths. The alleyways were jammed with soldiers in red cloaks and gold ones, the air was filled with the shrieks and wails of dying men, and the streets ran red with blood.

Damon had abandoned his mount when the streets grew too narrow and the crowds too thick, but soon he found himself leading a battalion men into a wide open space. From the white marble plaza below the Great Sept of Baelor, he saw the Red Keep looming in the distance, dark and menacing. Its tall towers of rose colored stone were illuminated by the torches within and yellow banners with black stags hung from the ramparts.

Behind him was the alchemist's guild, its doors shut and boarded. Less prepared were the homes and shops nearby, where Damon had seen men and women pulled into the streets by their hair, screaming and sobbing. He had no time to dwell on the brutality taking place around him, for ahead in the square waited Joseph Baratheon and half a thousand soldiers in cloaks of gold.

Damon would have felt hesitation if it weren't for the adrenaline coursing through him. The King's brother was a beast of a man, six feet six inches of muscle, decked in darkened steel armor. His two handed greatsword Antler glistened as he held it unsheathed at his side, sharper than a butcher's blade.

Damon's own sword was already slick with blood, and the men he lead halted behind him as he stood facing off against the Baratheon, the castle rising up behind the Stag in the background.

"Have you come for our city, Lannister!?" Joseph bellowed out. His deep voice was even bigger than he was. carrying across the courtyard and trumping the noise of the sack around them.

"Joseph Baratheon, surrender now!" Damon shouted back. "Your men are outnumbered, it will be _slaughter!_"

Behind him the Lannister soldiers waited impatiently, and further behind them the city was burning. The army had flooded River Row, Cobblers' and Fishmonger's Squares, the Street of Steel and the Muddy Way. Damon had no intent to join them. His goal lie before him, atop Aegon's Hill. The only thing standing in his way now was the Lord of Storm's End.

"Not a fucking chance!" Joseph thundered. He raised Antler high above his head and wheeled around to face the gold cloaks. "Are you ready to die, men?!" he boomed. The soldiers of the City Watch trumpeted their answer with shouts and raised fists.

"We die for honor!" he told them. "We die for glory! We die for the realm!" The men lifted their swords and bawled their resistance. "And let's take some fucking lions with us!"

He turned to Damon Lannister and the thousands of soldiers at his back and charged, roaring as he closed the distance between them. Behind him followed the Gold Cloaks and the two armies met in a clash of steel and flesh, spilling blood onto the pristine marble of the Great Sept's plaza.

Joseph's soldiers threw themselves bravely against the invading army, but the Baratheon had eyes for only one man. He raised Antler high as he charged at the Lannister heir, then brought the blade down towards Damon's waist, as if he aimed to slice him in half.

Blade collided with shield with a ringing _thwang!_ Damon braced himself against the stone plaza, barely maintaining his balance. His arm, already sore from the carrying weight of the shield, ached from the force of the blow.

_Like fighting a bloody giant,_ he realized, and the hesitation began to creep in, cutting through the initial exhilaration. The Baratheon's strength was as astounding as it was reputed to be. The Lord of Storm's End was larger than the Lannister, and stronger still. _But I'm faster. _

Damon met the Baratheon's second swing with his sword and their blades connected. The sound of steel ringing against steel filled the air, mingling with the cries of battle from the rest of their men as their forces smashed into each other. At every place the Baratheon swung his sword met with Damon's - the waist, the helm, the gaps in the armor, the joint under the arm…

"Quick little bastard!"Joseph yelled, grinning with a mad glint in his azure eyes. The Stag took a step backwards and then lunged forward with a grunt, bringing his greatsword down with full force. The sword connected with the stone of the plaza and he didn't see where his foe had gone until he felt cold steel against the back of his leg and a rush of warm blood.

"_Over here, you fat oaf."_

Joseph whirled around to find his nimble opponent and roared his frustration. This time when he launched his flurry of attacks it was with a burning fury. After a few parries, Joseph raised Antler over his head and sent it crashing down towards the Lannister's head. The strength of the blow would have caved in his helm, but Damon met it with his shield.

He heard the sickening sound of cracking bone before he felt the arm break, but the pain followed shortly, and with a vengeance. The young Lannister stripped his ruined shield hurriedly and raised his sword defensively.

The Baratheon took another looping swing, but Damon vanished again. Another gash with more blood running down his calf made him realize that the Lannister had sliced open the back of his other leg. The massive Stag fell to his knees. He swung his blade at the his foe's neck but Damon ducked, and thrust his sword through the exposed part of his enemy's armor, driving the steel into the gap beneath his arm.

"Give up, Lord Baratheon!" Damon shouted as he tore his blade from Joseph's flesh and took several staggering steps backwards, his breathing labored, his left arm hanging awkward and useless at his side. He ignored the throbbing pain in his body and stared down at the King's brother kneeling in the plaza before him, blood oozing out over the man's armor and staining the yellow tunic atop his breastplate.

Damon lifted his bloody sword and pointed it at the stormlord's neck.

"Surrender now," he said, panting, "Or I will take your head from your shoulders!"

Joseph let out a chuckle. He could feel the warm blood dripping from his arm and running down his legs. "A Baratheon doesn't fucking surrender."

In a final surge of defiance, he mustered his strength and lunged, thrusting his sword at Damon. The Lannister was too quick. He sidestepped the assault and swung his own sword hard at the Stag's throat. The blade cleaved through the flesh with a spray of blood and came to a halt halfway through. Damon yanked the sword free and swung again, finishing the job.

He stumbled backwards, clutching his broken arm, as the head of the King's brother rolled on the ground in front of him. "I need a sharper sword," he said aloud to no one. He glanced about the plaza as the Lannister men annihilated the Gold Cloaks. The guards were ill armored and they were no knights, while the Lannister host was suited for war.

Damon had been right.

It was a slaughter.

By the time he reached the stairs of the Red Keep, two thousand men of the City Watch laid dead in the streets of King's Landing. The sounds of screaming and fighting grew distant as Damon ascended the steps to the castle's gate with a small company of soldiers.

Varyo Velaryon was there waiting, the small man from Driftmark framed in the red stone archway, his mismatched eyes watching them make the climb nervously.

Damon stopped before the Spymaster of the Golden Company when he reached the landing, cradling his broken arm, and his men halted some distance behind him. The breeze mussed Varyo's silver hair and carried a stench of blood and death so thick it turned Damon's stomach.

"The city is yours," he told Varyo grimly. "Long live Aerion Blackfyre, Rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, the true Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

"Yes," Varyo mumbled, nodding. "The city is fallen... yes."

He turned suddenly to the attendants behind him, possessed of a manic energy, and began barking orders to his men.

"Clear the tower of the hand! Get me some wine, and prepare a letter to Loren Lannister!" He turned and made his way back towards the Red Keep. "And find the Targaryen boy! I want Loren Lannister's badge of office torn off his flesh!"

**\- SARELLA -**

Beneath the dome of gold and glass of the Tower of the Sun was the throne room from which Dorne was ruled, a large round chamber with thick windows of many colored glass. The floors were pale marble, beneath the soft sunlight that filtered in through the rotunda were two ancient seats on a dais, near twins to one another, the only difference being that one was inlaid with the Martell spear on its back and the other featured the blazing Rhoynish sun that flew from the masts of Nymeria's ships.

The spear seat was used by a ruling prince. Sarella Martell sat anxiously in the second chair.

_It is not mine yet,_ she knew. _Not while my father still lives._

As to how much longer he would, that was a matter of great debate. Maester Joss had been at the Prince's bedside since he first took ill upon their return from the capital, and it was Lord Fowler who brought Sarella news of his father's condition.

"You will need to start making decisions," he had told her. Manfrey was a tall man, thin as a reed with just whips of long black hair remaining on his head. He had been her father's advisor and steward for as long as Sarella had been alive.

"We have letters," he explained. "Lions, Roses, Stags, and Towers. War horns are being blown, Lady Martell. We cannot continue to ignore them."

So she didn't. At the counsel of Lord Manfrey, along with the bastard advisor Anders and the beautiful, lithe and long legged Ellaria Uller, the Prince's Pass was closed. The nobles of the ruling houses of Dorne were summoned to Sunspear, and now they filled the Tower of the Sun noisily, arguing amongst themselves and shooting the occasional glance towards Sarella and the empty spear seat.

The room was a sea of color. Sun kissed men and women garbed in purple, red, yellow, white, blue, and magenta were raising excessively bangled wrists and pointing fingers angrily at one another. Sarella gave a quiet nod to Aerio Allyrion, the bronze and broad shouldered captain of the Martell guard, who brought them to silence only by slamming the butt of his spear onto the stone floor over and over again.

Sarella stood to address them, feeling like a small child as she looked out at the faces of people twice her age. Older than her by decades, but sworn to her father. _Sworn to me, as well._

"Fellow Dornishmen," she began. She was grateful that her voice did not betray the anxiousness or worry she secretly felt. "The houses of Westeros are preparing for war. House Martell has been asked to declare our allegiances. We can remain silent no longer."

She took a moment to glance around the room at the solemn faces before her. Dornish from Yronwood, from Godsgrace, from Ghost Hill, from Skyreach, from Sandstone, from all corners of the southernmost kingdom. She recognized Daynes, Yronwoods, Blackmonts, Santagars, men and women both.

"Ravens tell of a returned Blackfyre, a bastard house of our ancient allies, the Targaryens. Lions roam the Gold Road in the name of this black dragon. They seek to make him King."

A few people murmured in the audience. Though many had already heard these rumors, some were doing so for the first time.

"Meanwhile the King, once husband to our Princess Gianna, seeks to crown a rose as his queen."

At that remark, an angry muttering broke out amongst the crowd of nobles. Sarella allowed the rabble to continue for a few moments before raising her hand for silence again. The soldiers that stood like columns around the room slammed the butts of their spears against the marble floors to assist in her call for order.

"Fellow Dornishmen," she said again. "Sunspear will remain silent on this matter no longer. House Martell will make a decision._ Dorne_ will make a decision. We must choose between ancient alliances and newer ones, and I will hear your counsel."

The Tower of the Sun was at once alive and echoing with the sound of hundreds of voices. Sarella's heart was heavy as she remembered the words of the Sword of the Morning. _"Don't try to play the game, fair Princess."_

She watched as the men and women erupted into argument and the guards once again began to pound the floors with their spears.

_I _have_ to, Ulrich. I _have _to._

**\- VARYO -**

The throne room was crowded now, and Lannister guards ringed the hall. Torches burned brightly in their sconces, casting eerie shadows over the stone floors and shrouding the frightened faces of the noble men and women who been herded into the great chamber like cattle.

Some of the women were whimpering, and children clung to their skirts. The men attempted to put on brave faces, but the trepidation in their eyes betrayed their true feelings. They stood as hostages to the man on the Iron Throne, and he was a stranger to them.

_It's still too quiet, _Varyo thought as he looked around at the fearful crowd._ I can still hear the sack._ His eyes followed the men who were tearing down the stag banners from the balcony rail and the walls.

Aerion sat resplendent on the seat of swords as he addressed his captive audience, although his black robe was dusty from travel. His grin remained, as wicked as ever, and there was a glint in his dark eyes that made him appear even more menacing than usual.

_His crown fits worse than a whore's clothes._

Aerion called out great phrases of fire and blood, but no amount of triumphal speeches could disguise the lack of spirit in the room, and would not turn the dour faces of the Lannister men to cheer.

_He doesn't sit like a king,_ Varyo reflected. _He doesn't sit the chair with any ease or grace. The chair is judging him, and it calls him usurper._

"I hereby declare Lord Loren Lannister the Hand of the King!" Aerion was speaking in his booming and authoritative voice. "To serve as my highest advisor in addition to his role as Warden of the West and Shield of Lannisport."

Varyo was hardly paying attention. His hand gripped his spear tightly. Damon was not yet present, and the maesters were still fussing over his arm.

_Maybe we shall have to speed ahead with our plot._

"Lord Orys Connington shall hold the Lord Paramountcy of the Stormlands," Aerion went on. "and he will rule over them from Storm's End!"

_Seven hells, on with it!_ Varyo thought. He was tired of listening to the sellsword King's throaty voice and dramatic words. The highborn in the room stood enraptured and afraid, but the Lannister soldiers seemed to share in the spymaster's apathy. They were trapped in the Keep listening to this stranger's orders while their brothers in arms were running wild in the streets of King's Landing, sacking, burning, and raping.

"... and I appoint Ser Ulrich Dayne as the Lord Commander of my Kingsguard!" Aerion finished at last.

At that a hushed whisper went around the room.

_Who? _Varyo thought, shocked. _He appoints who? How dare he! Who does he think rules here?!_

"Your Grace," Varyo approached the throne, stepping onto the dais and gazing up at the King, confusion and displeasure etched into the sharp features of his face. "You cannot seriously mean this?"

"You forget yourself, Lord Varyo," Aerion replied smugly. "I rule in King's Landing now. You are no longer needed, and you would do well to remember that the Dragon bows to no one."

"A false dragon - something you would do well to remember," Varyo spat back.

_How dare he! He must have been the informer on Bloodstone, yes! That is it, he betrayed us to the Sword of the Morning! He killed Rhaevo!_

"Take the Velaryon to a black cell!" the false Blackfyre ordered, pointing down at the spymaster who was marching up towards him. "I shall have his head!"

Two guards stepped onto the dais behind him at once, hands on their swords. Varyo spun to face them and lowered his spear. The two red-cloaked soldiers hesitated.

_To hell with this, let's make an end to this mummer's farce, _Varyo thought bitterly.

He wheeled back around and charged up the stairs, throwing himself at the Blackfyre. His spear smashed straight through the elegant robes that had been so hastily fashioned for their false king.

Aerion gave a cry, and he looked down at the wooden shaft protruding from his gut and then back up at the spymaster in shock.

"Go die, and see to it that Rhaevo follows you through all seven hells!" Varyo hissed.

The throne room burst into cacophony; people shouted various commands and curses. Two Lannister men ascended the stairs, their weapons now drawn.

"The King is dead!" Varyo shouted over the uproar. "Long live Aeslyn, the first of her name, of the Houses Targaryen and Lannister! Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men! And long-"

He never got to finish it; the two red cloaked guards grabbed him forcefully and yanked him down the steps.

"Take him to the dungeons," one them growled. "Throw him in a cell. Let the lordling cope with this."

_I have avenged you, Rhaevo, _Varyo thought as he was dragged roughly from the room. _I have to tell Loren…_

**\- JAMES -**

With war, there always came refugees. This was something no highborn man or woman truly appreciated, something no general factored into his plans when invading one of the Seven Kingdoms. This was something only the lowborn and the bastards understood.

James Rivers must have stood at the harbors of Braavos all day, watching ships come in with hundreds of displaced men and women on board. Most of them spoke with the accents of Westeros. _My own accent,_ James thought as he watched the weary travelers, _My own birthplace._

In the free cities, whispers traveled faster than ravens ever could. A Blackfyre had laid claim to the Iron Throne and was taking it with fire and blood, much like their Targaryen half-siblings had done, but on the back of a Lion instead of a dragon. Westeros was tearing itself apart, just as it had done countless times before.

James watched as people crowded the harbor. His mind turned to Danae and the rest of their company. Had they left Sharp Point only a month later... he shoved the thought away, and watched another ship unload its refugees.

A babe's wail reached his ears as a mother dragged her brood of children through the docks. The father walked closely behind pulling one small piece of luggage that likely held all the belongings for the family of six. James gave a small prayer for their safety, but knew the likelihood of thievery by Braavosi or the other refugees in the harbor would deprive them of the few precious belongings they had left.

As refugees with war, with large crowds always came trouble and all of these people looked starved, half of them looked like corpses, and some even looked diseased. Eventually, the blue-bearded Sealord himself might have to make an appearance to quell the vast number of people suddenly begging asylum in his city.

James and Summer had spent the last several days seeking out their friends and former masters. They departed from the Inn of the Green Eel every morning before the sun rose and arrived late at night after the others had already retired to their rooms. Danae had been instructed by Orin to remain at the inn during the day so that the two could discuss plans for Valyria, and ensure that the small dragon remained hidden in the Targaryen's room.

So far, the Grand Maester's coin had paid for their passage and board, but James wondered when his pockets would empty. _How does the maester have the gold to afford this journey? The man surrendered his claim to the wealth of his family when he donned his chain._

James thought of Danae and her willingness to follow this stranger into a smoking ruin that would surely end in disaster. He had been wanting to speak with her about abandoning Orin in Braavos and seeking out her family ties in the city instead, but every time he saw her the Grand Maester was at her side, whispering secrets into her ear and laughing over some joke that James was not privy to.

_I'm sure she grows bored, locked in that inn alone with only her dragon and a grey-bearded, stooped Baratheon, but she cannot risk being seen in the city. An alluring young woman trying to keep secrets would not do well in a crowd of curious Braavosi._

The city was fast-paced and chaotic place. Braavosi of all ages ran between markets, selling everything they could get their hands on and it seemed that fish, ale, and pleasure in particular were available in abundance. He left the loud, bustling Ragman's harbor and wandered the streets, examining the strangely beautiful city he once called home in order to seek out an old sparring partner named Mero. A typical gossiping Braavosi, Mero always had news from around the world ready to share with anyone who would buy him a mug of ale or a girl.

James stopped for food at an inn and paused to stick his head inside each brothel he passed. He walked by an old brothel called the Cattery and peeked inside. Temptation called to him as women from all corners of the world waved and winked. James stood in the threshold of the entrance torn between duty and the promise of pleasure.

Just as he was about to enter, he glanced back to the streets to see a suspicious wisp of silver-blonde hair escape from a ragged brown cloak wrapped tightly around a small figure. The shadow was walking briskly in the direction of Ragman's harbor. He turned his back on the brothel and ducked behind a wall to follow Danae.

_What in the Seven Hells is she doing outside?_

He padded along behind her, silent as a cat, as she wove her way down hidden alleys and winding lanes. She hesitated at a fork in the road, and then turned right. _She's lost,_ he thought, _but where is she trying to go?_

Before he had time to think of an answer, a drunken Braavosi stumbled out from a brothel, forcing Danae to halt. He looked as though he were about to retch, when he suddenly took note of the hooded woman, and then took a few unsteady steps towards her.

"You there! You workin' here?" He spoke to her in thick Braavosi, a language James knew well but that was as foreign to Danae as the Old Tongue. "I swear you'd make me a lot of money... Those purple eyes...Let me see your hair, girl. I might even be able to sell you as part dragonseed..." He reached a grubby hand towards Danae and yanked at her cloak.

James saw her tear away from the man and hurry off in a panic while the fat Braavosi tilted his head back and roared with coarse, drunken laughter. James sprinted after her. As he passed the brothel, he stopped briefly to connect his fist with the drunken man's nose. After the stranger fell onto his back, bleeding and cursing, James bolted after Danae.

When he caught her, he grabbed her by the elbow and spun her around to face him.

"James!" She spoke breathlessly. Her pale cheeks were flushed pink and her lilac eyes were wide. A hesitant smile spread across her comely face and she attempted to hide her distress, but James could read her body language like a book. Tendrils of hair fell from her loose hood and she brushed them aside. "So good to see you! How has your time been with your master?"

"Danae, you know you aren't supposed to leave the inn." His right hand tightened anxiously around her small upper arm as he looked away from her to search the busy streets around them. "Where's the maester? He's been latched onto you since we arrived."

She only frowned up at him. "I grew restless, and Orin left the inn for just a moment to make a purchase. I know I can't leave Persion alone, so I stood outside the inn in disguise and slipped away when I saw Summer returning. Orin spends his days telling me of Valyria and magic and dragons, but I hear no news from Westeros. How can I plan to take King's Landing on my return if no one will tell me anything that is happening there?"

_She knows nothing of the war…_

"Danae," James sighed as he gazed down at her. "I think we should return to the Green Eel. We have much to discuss." He gently released her and they trudged back through the crowds streets to the inn in silence.

The Grand Maester was sitting at a small table with Summer when they entered. The old man's usually calm face was contorted in anger and his blue eyes bore into them like siege weapons as they slipped into a booth away from them.

"Danae," James spoke at last. "A Blackfyre has laid claim to the Iron Throne with the aid and armies of the Lannisters, and as far as I'm aware, he's taken it. The refugees in the harbor are mostly from the Riverlands. Randyll Frey declared himself the new Lord Paramount and is marching across the kingdom to take Harrenhal from Lord Baelish. The Conningtons are taking the Stormlands. From what I gather, the seven kingdoms are at war."

Danae didn't have time to reply before Summer slid in beside her, sidling up to the young Targaryen so that their hips were touching.

"Your sister may be distracted by the war, but she will not forget you." The sellsword motioned to a serving girl, who slammed a pitcher of ale and three mugs down onto the table sloppily. The alcohol sloshed over the rim of the pitcher and onto the sticky surface. "Aeslyn in power does not bode well for us. She will suspect we traveled to Braavos from the Wall, but once we leave she will have to take many blind guesses as to our whereabouts in the free cities."

Summer filled the mugs and shoved one towards Danae. James ignored the ale, glancing over to where the Grand Maester sat watching them from across the crowded room.

"My master told me of a trade ship that leaves on the morrow for Volantis," Summer continued. "If Volantis is truly where you wish you go, we must be on board before dawn. It is a long journey, but staying on the sea will keep you from being seen in the cities and news of your location will remain a secret to your sister."

James watched as Orin stood and shoved his chair back under the table forcefully. He stalked right past their booth and stomped up the stairs to his room. Over the quiet babble of the inn, they heard him slam his door shut.

"Your absence caused the maester to lose his mind in rage," Summer placed a hand on Danae's and leaned in closer to her. "When I arrived back at the inn, you were both gone. When he returned, he stormed up to your room and then sent me off to search for you when you were nowhere to be found. I lied and told him that James decided to show you the many beautiful temples along the Isle of the Gods."

The three glanced towards the stairway.

"Really, Lady Danae, you shouldn't have left, and you can't hide yourself from me so easily. I saw you sneaking away from the inn and I sent one of the maester's guards to follow you." She motioned to a nearby table where the muscular, blonde guard named Jon sat in a corner with a mug of ale and a serving girl upon his lap. He nodded his head in their direction.

"You are a beautiful and adventurous woman," Summer smiled coyly at Danae, her hand still resting on the Targaryen's, "and I mean to see you sit the throne as Queen of Westeros, but you really make a lousy spy." She laughed and withdrew her hand. "The guard is paid by the Grand Maester, but he will keep your secrets as long as he warms my bed every night."

The sellsword winked and leaned back in her chair to eye Jon and the serving girl. "Perhaps tonight my bed will be very warm."

James noticed Danae eying the stairway to their rooms warily. The angry departure of the Grand Maeser must have been uncharacteristic compared to the friendly, knowledgeable man she had spent so much time with during the past few days. _He plans to control her as a puppet and keep her from the influence of anyone else. But why?_

He cleared his throat. "I won't speculate the Grand Maester's reasons for joining us, but _you _are the reason Summer and I are here, Danae. Mayhaps we should leave now. We can search out the Targaryen ties in the city and you can begin to build a new life. Summer and I can... ah, _remove_ the Grand Maester and you'll be free from his mad plan to seek whatever dark powers lie in Volantis. Forget the throne as Daenerys did, and spend your time in Braavos creating a family. Perhaps an ancestor of yours will one day acquire the means to take the throne."

Danae brought her mug to her lips and took a small sip, wincing at the ale's strong and bitter taste. "It's too late for me to escape now," she said, setting the cup aside. "The maester's dream of using the magic of Valyria to place my house back on the throne has taken root in my own heart. Braavos is not my home. This continent is not my home. Daenerys traveled to this city only after her campaign failed in Westeros, so how can I give up before I even make an attempt?"

She took Summer's hand in hers again and reached across the table to take James' as well. "We need to remain wary of the maester and his true ambitions," she said, "whatever they may be. But I _am _going to Valyria and I will need the help of the two people I _do_ trust."

Summer immediately nodded and raised her mug of ale high while leaning in to whisper enthusiastically to their table, "To Queen Danae!"

_Volantis is madness. _James ran his thumb slowly over Danae's hand. Her touch was soft and he felt his heart flutter. She quickly pulled her hand away as she raised an eyebrow at him, and a warm flush crept up his neck and face. _Oh, who are you kidding, James? You'll follow her to the shadow of Asshai._

"My sword is yours, my lady," he spoke quietly and took a drink from his own mug.

"Good," Danae replied quickly and he watched her hurriedly divert her lilac eyes. "With all her Lannister coin now, Aeslyn could have assassins searching the free cities." She stood to gather her skirts before turning back to face their table. "I will not spend my days rotting away in various inns on the eastern continent, but perhaps the two of you will need to be around when I explain that to our maester. We will be onboard that ship by dawn."

James longingly watched her wander through the tables of the inn and climb the stairs towards her room before he turned back to face Summer. The female sellsword's face held a look of bemusement and she winked at him playfully before sliding out from the booth.

She gave him a sympathetic pat on the back and he watched her approach Jon and the serving girl with a coy smile before downing his mug of ale and calling for another.

**\- THADDIUS -**

"I'm hungry," Mellara complained loudly. Her voice was high and whiny, and Thaddius thought of his own little sister. Ashara had never been such a nuisance. Even as a little girl, the youngest Lannister had been the embodiment of a lady, reserved and delicate.

Mellara belched and then whined some more. "Can we stop yet? My stomach is growling."

_Gods, this one never shuts up. _Thaddius shifted the reins from one hand to the other and looked over his shoulder at the youngest Tyrell, riding in front of Benjen with her wrists bound and tied, just as her brother's were.

"If I cut out your stomach," he told her, "then you won't ever need to eat again. Would that suit you?"

Mellara glared back at him. "If you cut out my stomach," she retorted, "then I'll be dead."

Thaddius' handsome young face lit up with a smile. "Exactly. Dead girls don't need food."

Mellara glowered but fell silent and Thaddius turned back to the Roseroad before them. They had been traveling for over a week now and between Troy's quiet seething rage, Benjen's sulking, and Mellara's incessant chatter, he was rather sick of the Tyrells' company.

_This had better be worth it,_ he thought, hoping his father would be pleased by his contribution. In truth, it was to King Aerion that the highborn hostages would be gifted, but Thaddius had never even met the man. There were only two people whose opinions mattered to him, his father and his brother, and Thaddius was confident that both would be proud.

"You should be thanking the Seven you're still alive at all," he told Mellara. "With the amount you eat, killing you days ago would have left the rest of us with enough food to rival one of Harys' feasts. You eat like an Umber, for being such a scrawny, ugly little thing."

The clopping of horses' hooves against the cobbled road was a steady, rhythmic sort of music that interrupted the stillness of the Kingswood. The pine trees rose around them like sentinels, their needles the only source of green in the hibernating forest.

"You should be ashamed to wear that white cloak," Troy spat. "Threatening little girls, calling women homely… what kind of knight are you, Lannister?"

"Ha!" Thaddius laughed, not bothering to even so much as glance at the Tyrell. "Not the Sword of the fucking Morning, that's for sure. You think having a "ser" in front of his name makes a man different than any other, Troy?"

"Ser Ulrich Dayne is an honorable and gallant knight-"

"Ser Ulrich Dayne is a _man_," Thaddius interrupted. "Do you forget that I serve beside him? I know the Sword of the Morning far better than you do. Believe you me, Tyrell, he isn't a god, and as for honor? Ha! He's a Dornishman. He fought and fucked his way across the eastern continent before he ever joined Hary's Kingsguard, and lest you forget, I wear the same cloak as he does."

"Protect the innocent, defend the weak," the Tyrell started to say. "Honor, and valor, and bravery-"

"Blah, blah, blah," Thaddius rolled his eyes. "Bravery and chivalry and a bunch of other nonsense, I know, I took the same vows as you and then some. The ceremony was dull enough the first time around, no need for you to do the whole thing all over again for me."

Remembering his knighting, it was all Thaddius could do to keep from yawning.

_No wonder Damon had no interest in the order,_ he thought, remembering how his older brother looked as though he were about to fall asleep during the grand ceremony in the throne room at King's Landing years ago. It was probably for the best that Damon hadn't been paying attention, for he would have been sick with envy at the look of pride Loren wore when his son was sworn to the Kingsguard.

"Have you _forgotten_ those vows, Ser Thaddius?" Troy snapped. "I don't remember any bits about holding knives to a child's throat, or kidnapping a lord's sons, or _betraying _your king!"

Thaddius frowned. "Who said anything about betraying my king? Aerion Blackfyre will be delighted to receive this little bouquet of roses as a coronation present."

Troy's face twisted into an expression of confusion. Benjen glanced over at his brother from atop his own horse but Mellara spoke before either of her brothers could.

"Aerion Blackfyre?" she repeated. "Who is Aerion Blackfyre?"

"He's your new king," Thaddius replied. "Oh, you'll meet him soon enough. I'm sure you'll like him."

"Harys Baratheon is king," Mellara said firmly.

"Well, I haven't betrayed Harys either. I'm following his orders. He said to take your brother back to King's Landing and that's what I'm doing. It's not my fault you and Benjen volunteered to come along. Believe me, I'd rather kill the whole bloody lot of you and go back to the Red Keep alone, but I suppose you haven't yet given me cause."

Troy glowered.

"I doubt a man such as yourself needs _cause_ to slaughter an innocent."

Thaddius yanked the reins of his mount and brought it to a halt. The other horses stopped in turn behind him and dug their hooves at the cobbled streets impatiently, shaking their manes. _I am awfully tired of this._

"You're right," he said, turning his horse to face the other two that carried the Tyrell siblings. "I don't."

Thaddius swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted, his shining white armor clinking as his feet hit the ground with a thud. Benjen shifted nervously atop his horse, the ropes of his binds cutting into his wrists, and even Mellara looked uneasy but Troy continued to scowl angrily.

Thaddius marched deliberately to the horse that carried Troy and Mellara and grabbed the small girl by the shoulders and yanked her down. She began thrashing immediately, whipping her tangled brown hair about. "What are you doing!? Let me go!"

Her wish was granted when Thaddius set her down roughly in the center of the road, some distance from the horses. Her brothers soon joined her as the Lannister pulled them from their mounts as well, lining the three up on their knees in the middle of the Roseroad beneath a pale and cloudless sky.

"Alright then," he said calmly, standing before them. "Who will it be?"

The siblings exchanged nervous glances. "Who will _what_ be?" Mellara asked with anxious confusion. _As stupid as she is ugly._

"Which one of you will die?" Thaddius asked. He stared down at his prisoners with a look of apathetic boredom plastered on his attractive face. "Your brother here says that I don't need cause to slaughter an innocent human being, and I wouldn't want to prove him wrong, now would I? Knights aren't _liars_, are they?"

None of them responded and so he drew his sword and began to march for Mellara.

"No!" Benjen shouted, breaking his long silence. "No, please! Not Mellara. If you're going to kill one of us, kill me. Don't harm Mellara."

The youngest rose sat wide eyed on the ground, staring at her brother. "Benjen, no!" Her gaze flew to Thaddius. "You're not serious!" she declared, then looked at Troy. "He's not serious, is he?!"

Thaddius ignored her, looking to the oldest Tyrell. "What say you, Troy?" he asked. "Will you let your brother die to save your sister?"

Troy glanced at Benjen, and for the first time since they left Oldtown his glare vanished, only fear in his golden brown eyes. "Benjen, you don't have to do this," he told his younger brother.

"He's not serious!" Mellara shrieked.

"I _do_ have to do this," Benjen responded, his voice quaking. "You are the heir to Highgarden. Mellara is my lady sister. Protect the innocent, defend the weak," he repeated his brother's words solemnly.

"Benjen…"

Thaddius watched their exchange with mild amusement before sheathing his sword. "Don't worry," he said soothingly, his face suddenly calm. "I'm not going to kill Benjen."

Mellara's shoulders sank in relief and the Highgarden heir finally released his breath.

"Troy is."

He could see the horror in their stupid faces, and felt a rush of adrenaline at the sight of their terror. Thaddius remembered the Iron Islands suddenly, and a fish at the end of his spear, a boy at the end of his blade, a cousin who taught him how to kill. He remembered Lannisport, and the dungeons beneath Casterly Rock teeming with scum with which to amuse himself. He remembered the woods between Crakehall and Cornfield, and the bandits who were no match for a knight.

For a moment it was as if he were back there, and instead of three highborn children staring up at him there were three savage outlaws, begging for his mercy, pleading for their deaths. And this time, his brother's nagging voice wasn't in his ear, urging him to let the man go, to stop, stop Thaddius, _stop..._

He walked back to one of the horses and unpacked Troy's sword that he had taken from him back outside of Oldtown. He pulled it from his sheath and then went over to Mellara and yanked her roughly to her feet.

"And just to make sure that you do," he said, holding her by her bound wrists in one hand and throwing the sword down in front of Troy with the other. Once it landed on the cobbled street in front of him, Thaddius drew his dagger and pressed it to Mellara's throat, taking a few steps backwards. "I'm going to wait right here with your sister. If you try anything stupid, I'll slit her throat, roast her body, and make you eat a piece every night for supper between here and King's Landing."

_Or maybe I won't cut her throat, _he thought. _Such a quick way to die. Maybe I'll cut off her fingers first, and then her toes, and then her feet and then her hands... _He saw the faces of the bandits in his mind's eye, could almost feel Damon shaking him by the shoulders.

Troy picked up the sword unsteadily in his bound hands and climbed to his feet.

"Don't!" Mellara was shouting, and Thaddius pressed his dagger closer against her throat. It would be so easy to silence that whining voice, so easy...

"_Protect the innocent,"_ Benjen said again. _"Defend the weak._ That is what a knight does."

"You're not a knight yet, Benjen," the older Tyrell shook his head. "You don't have to-"

"Then you will knight me now," his younger brother replied. "With your sword when you take my head." Benjen made a valiant effort to appear brave, but his lip was trembling as he turned his gaze to the round beneath his knees and bowed his head.

The sword shook in his hands and Troy tried to hold it steady as he raised it high above his brother's neck.

"Made it a clean stroke Troy," Thaddius called out cheerfully. "That way his head will be easier for you to carry back to King's Landing. Don't want the innards and all that hanging out."

Tears ran hot down Benjen's cheeks. "Do it, Troy," he whispered. "Do it."

"Do it!" Thaddius laughed, holding the cold steel to Mellara's neck. Troy brought the blade down with a dull thunk, slicing through bone and muscle and severing his brother's head.

"_NO!" _Mellara wailed. Her body went limp in Thaddius' grip as her legs failed her. When the Lannister released her, she collapsed onto the ground in a sobbing heap. Thaddius walked over to where Troy stood numbly and took the sword from his hand without resistance as the heir to Highgarden stared down at his brother's lifeless body.

"Look what you've done, Troy," Thaddius said with a sigh. "I had hoped to bring _three_ hostages as a gift to King Aerion, but now I've just got two." He picked up the severed head by the hair and thrust it at Troy's chest. "Two and a half, I guess. Look on the bright side, though. Now you don't have to share a horse."

He stared at the hollow eyed Tyrell heir. Troy did not respond.

"Are you ungrateful, Ser Troy?" Thaddius asked, frowning suddenly. "Do you not _appreciate_ what I've done for you?" He took a step closer to the lordling. "Fine."

Thaddius drew his sword, marched back to the horses and grabbed the reins of one of the mounts, yanking the beast towards him. In one fluid slice with his blade, he slit open the animal's throat and a torrent of blood came rushing out. Mellara shrieked as the horse collapsed onto the road.

"You can _walk_ to King's Landing."

**\- DAMON -**

_Take the city_, he had commanded, and take it they had done.

From the walls of the Red Keep, Damon watched. King's Landing below flickered red and black in the light of thousands upon thousands of torches. Stretching from the Street of Sisters to Flea Bottom, the Lannister soldiers took their due. Burning, looting, killing, and seizing any woman they found.

_Bloodlust has taken hold, _Damon thought with disgust. He couldn't help but see a splatter of red in his mind's eye, a head rolling, a sword stained forever.

"Stagslayer!" A shout cut through the fading sounds of combat below and Damon turned, broken arm set in a sling across his still armored chest.

"Ser Lyonel," he called out wearily to the approaching Lannister knight. "Keep your titles, I'd prefer a wineskin."

"Wine must wait, I'm afraid." The knight had charged through the Lion's Gate at Damon's side and the two clasped arms for a moment before breaking free. "The city is ours, three-hundred of our men lay dead, two-hundred wounded. Two thousand gold cloaks were put to the sword in the streets."

_So much death… _The city reeked of it. Even now the cries of the wounded reached his ears, smallfolk screaming to their gods for mercy. King's Landing bled and Damon knew his duty - to twist the blade even further.

"Search the keep," he said. "Bring all lords and ladies to the throne room. Those who swear fealty to Aerion will be allowed free roam of the Red Keep, those who do not will be kept as hostages. Anyone of low birth who does not swear fealty to the king will decorate a spike with their head." Before Ser Lyonel could turn away Damon grabbed him by the arm. "You will personally lead ten soldiers to the boy's bedchamber. I want Rickon Baratheon alive and unharmed."

Ser Lyonel nodded before departing and Damon turned, watching the city with a heavy heart.

_Is this what it means to play the game of thrones? Smallfolk slaughtered in their sleep and children dragged from their beds? _He had no taste for it, and the burdens lay like ashes on his tongue.

The walk from the keep's walls to the Great Hall left Damon drained. The adrenaline he felt during the sacking had been replaced with a steady painful throbbing from his broken arm. Each subsequent jab felt like a dagger and he winced in pain when a group of Lannister men rushing past brushed against the wounded limb.

The halls of the castle were familiar to him. It wasn't so long ago that the lords and ladies of the realm had dined here in the King's embrace. He could see them there, laughing, drinking, dancing.

_How many of them lay dead now?_ Damon wondered. The ghosts had no answers for him and the halls remained silent, the din of battle fading like a forgotten dream.

Panicked shouts reached his ears as he neared the throne room, sending him into a sprint. He pushed open the giant oak doors to find chaos - shouting and screaming came from every corner of the room where ladies and lords stood, outraged and fearful, surrounded by Lannister soldiers. Upon the throne sat the body of Aerion; it took a moment for Damon to realize that the man was dead, blood oozing onto the iron swords of his seat.

_King of Scabs_ briefly crossed Damon's mind before the true implications of what was before him sank in. The King was dead.

A hundred thoughts flashed through his head: traitors, lions, gold cloaks, each one fighting for space in his head, threatening to overflow.

"Who did this."

It was only a whisper, yet the cacophony died down.

"Who did this!" His voice came out in a roar now, anger and confusion boiling over into something else, something fearful.

"_WHO KILLED THE KING?"_

**\- SARELLA -**

Sarella nursed a cup of sour wine, forcing a smile every now and then when someone approached her.

The Tower of the Sun had been converted from a war council to a feast. The nobles had argued for hours, and her head still ached and their voices echoed in her mind, despite the Dornish red that was slowly working its way through her bloodstream.

Lord Manfrey was trying to calm the Yronwood and Fowler lords, who had gotten into an argument so heated during the council that they eventually had to be pulled from each other's throats. Apart from the near brawl between the two long-feuding houses, there had only been three fights and no serious injuries.

It had been a calm war council.

It had also been unproductive.

Regardless of the fact that no decision had been made, or perhaps because of it, the men and women were ready to eat and drink the night away. Wine flowed freely and music filled the Great Hall, only serving to worsen the throbbing of Sarella's head. She turned the bottom of her cup to the ceiling and finished the wine.

Lady Ellaria sat to her right and Lord Anders to her left, but both were preoccupied arguing quietly with noblemen who approached the high table and occasionally even turning to bicker with each other, leaning over their food and pointing fingers across the Princess, exchanging heated words as she sat annoyed between them.

At least most of the Dornishmen and women seemed content to abandon talk of war in favor or food and drink. Sarella guessed that more than half the nobles present were drunk, and she hoped to join their ranks soon as a cupbearer refilled her chalice.

Across the hall, she spotted Martyn Dayne, seated with the attendants who had accompanied him from Starfall, and one of his younger siblings. Arianne, she thought, though it was hard to tell the two sisters apart. There was no sign of Jon or Cailan, and Ulrich was dead.

Or alive, depending on who told it. A raven had come a week ago, bearing news that the Sword of the Morning had been slain on Bloodstone, but before Sarella could even dry her eyes there were whispers that he had been seen in the Stormlands. She didn't know what to make of it.

She drank some more.

Martyn had been talking to one of the men across from him, but when he felt the Princess' gaze he turned and caught her eye. She smiled, and he reddened.

"Excuse me." She stood abruptly from her chair, causing Lord Anders to pause in his conversation with the Uller woman, and the two hardly glanced at her as she left the table, moving Sarella's now vacant seat out of the way so that they could better argue with each other.

She made her way to Martyn's side slowly, weaving through the feast, ensnared by half a dozen conversations along the way.

"Princess," he greeted her when she finally arrived. "I saw you leave from your seat quite some time ago. I had hoped you were coming to see me but once my food grew cold, I admit had my doubts." He smiled a handsome smile, and offered her his cup. "To Dorne," he said.

She felt her shoulders relax as she accepted, and took a long sip. "To Dorne," she agreed when she lowered the chalice. "Martyn, will you walk with me?"

With the Dayne at her side, she was able to escape to a corridor unmolested, and when the door closed behind them the sounds of the feast abated along with the throbbing of her head. She set the cup down on a small side table pressed against the wall of the long hallway.

Darkness had fallen and the marble floors were cool. She could feel their coldness through her thin jeweled slippers, but the air was still as hot as ever and she tugged at her burgundy gown, peeling the light fabric away from her sweaty skin.

Martyn's gaze flitted from her face to her hands as she adjusted the straps of the dress, though he tried his best meet her eyes.

"It's very warm in there," Sarella admitted.

"Yes," was all he managed to say, and she smiled at his nervousness. He hadn't been nervous in the training yard. _Men only seem to feel confident with their swords._ He picked up the cup and finished the wine before setting it back down on the table and turning back to Sarella.

"What do you make of this?" she asked him. "All of this. Stags, lions, roses, dragons..."

He cleared his throat. "Ah, well... I'm not really a man of politics, my lady. I can lead armies and swing a sword better than the rest of them, but when it comes to matters of secret alliances and betrayals and scheming, I'm afraid that as a nobleman I'm rather lacking." He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.

_He looked so much like Ulrich, his eyes, his face..._

"The decision remains that of my father," Sarella said. "But this council today was meant to help guide that choice. I listened with his ears, and now I may need to speak with his tongue. I know what he would want, and that is to do nothing. But if we remain neutral, what will the victor do with us once he is finished? If the Black Dragon sits the throne in earnest, he will want us to swear our allegiance. If Harys reclaims his seat, he will ask where our armies were when he needed them..."

She sighed and shook her head. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be asking you this."

"No, it's fine. A Princess can ask whatever she likes from whomever she likes." Martyn smiled. The wine seemed to have given him some confidence. "I just wish I could help you."

"I'm sure that there's a way you can help me."

Martyn looked puzzled. "I apologize, my Princess, if there is I don't know it. As I said, I understand very little of the bickering of high lords-"

"Not with that, Martyn." She stepped closer to him, placing her hands upon his chest. "With this headache I've got..."

Sarella didn't bother to glance down the corridor for watching eyes. She grabbed Martyn by the collar of his tunic and yanked him towards her, pressing her lips against his again in a passionate kiss. Surprised, he stumbled slightly, caught off guard, and when Sarella broke the kiss at long last she looked at him playfully.

"My Lord, you do not take your own lessons to heart," she teased, "In the courtyard, you told me to always be steady on your feet. If you stumble," she traced a hand down his chest, fingering the embroidery of his shirt, coming to rest at the waist of his pants, _"You're dead."_

Martyn chuckled. "Only if you're slow."

As soon as he finished his sentence, he lifted her up and pressed her against the wall, her legs wrapping quickly around him. He started to kiss her neck, moving up along to her ear and then down to her lips. Sarella moaned with pleasure at his touch.

With her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, her hands found his hair, wavy and pale silver. She ran her fingers through it before grabbing his shirt once more and tugging him ever closer, their kiss becoming deeper, more desperate.

_He tastes like Ulrich..._

When she finally broke away, she was panting. "Always keep your body towards your opponent," she repeated his words breathlessly. The wall was cold against her back, in stark contrast to the heat between her legs. She reached down and tugged at her dress, pulling it up so that no fabric rested between their bodies.

"I need you inside me," she begged. "Martyn, please." Her legs gripped him so tightly that he didn't even need his arms to hold her anymore as he pushed her up against the stone wall. Martyn undid the laces of his breeches with one hand.

"I suppose we should move onto the next lesson," he mumbled, his lips against her mouth. "Penetrating your opponent's defenses."

Sarella threw back her head, her back sliding up and down against the wall as he thrust in and out of her. It was impossible to hold back the moans, so she didn't try to, allowing her voice to echo in the corridor and mingle with the muffled sounds of the music and feasting from the great hall.

He felt like Ulrich.

**\- VARYO -**

Varyo could not have said if had been one day or a hundred in the black cells, but slowly the exhaustion began to fade away. He was startled when he woke, unaware that he hadn't been awake.

_I have barely been sleeping since Rhaevo_ _died, _he realized, and tried to focus on the events of the sack, his killing of the King. _I killed him. These hands. The traitor is dead_.

A flood of relief washed over him, and he heard his own voice chuckling in the silence of the cell. Aerion was dead and Ulrich Dayne would be dead soon, too, if he weren't already. _I should have waited, _he knew. _That hadn't been the plan. I couldn't help myself._

The embers of rage he harbored were burning low, but they were bringing in a new hardness within himself. He had killed before in war, but this was different. Bit by bit, he had changed, from a weak boy with Rhaevo to help him, to a harsh man.

_Harsh like my blood father, not Rhaevo,_ he noted.

The sound of the hinges of his cell door groaning and the clang of metal on metal stirred him from his thoughts as a guard moved to unlock his cell. The light from a torch came creeping in when the oak door opened, bathing the damp stone walls in an eerie orange glow. Varyo frowned and blinked for a moment before he recognized the young man who entered.

_The lion cub,_ he realized, staring up at the lordling from his seated position on the cold stone floor.

The maesters had set and bound his broken arm, and it hung across his chest in a sling. His helm was gone, and now Varyo could clearly see the messy golden locks of his heritage, as much a part of his Lannister blood as the flashing green eyes that glared down at him.

_At last, he comes._

Damon passed the torch to one of the men behind him. "Go back to the throne room," he told the guard. "If word comes of my father's arrival, fetch me immediately." As soon as the soldier left, he turned his attention back to the prisoner in the cell.

"Kingslayer."

Damon glowered at Varyo Velaryon and two different colored eyes stared back at him, one a watery green, the other pale grey. His voice came out calmly and icily, but Varyo could see the apprehension behind his eyes.

"I would question you," Damon said through clenched teeth and Varyro looked up at him and blinked innocently. He looked peaceful for a man who just slaughtered a regent as he sat on his throne. His gaze was steady, unapologetic.

"Why did you kill your king?"

Varyo didn't reply. He could hear the anger in his interrogator's voice and found it amusing. _He lacks his father's equanimity, _he thought bemusedly. _Everything he feels is written all over his face._

"Why did you call Aeslyn queen?"

That question gave Varyo pause, and he frowned up at the Lannister in confusion. _He truly hasn't figured it out yet, _he realized, and the thought made him laugh out loud.

Damon seized Varyo by the collar of his tunic and lifted the silver haired murderer to his feet with one hand, slamming him into the wall of the cell and holding him there with his good arm against his throat.

"I would have you answer, _kingslayer!_"

_Does he think I'm afraid of him?_ Varyo mused. _What is left for me to possibly be afraid of?_

"What else do you call the wife of a king? You should ask your lord father, cub," he chuckled. "It was all there from the start." Varyo sighed. He had been foolish, but he just couldn't help himself. "You think you're an honorable man? You think Aerion was a king?" the captive questioned. "Well, now you are a king, and I am only a kingslayer if we win. Otherwise we are both corpses."

_What a fool, _Varyo noted,_ Such a weak heart for such violence, and yet... Barely a week hence, I would have been the same…_

"This war is far from over. You think because we hold this capital that the realm bows down?" Varyo probed. "You are going to need me, and my sellswords to do the deeds you cannot. Send me and my Bright Banners from the city, and you need not see us till the war is at an end."

_By one way, or another._

Damon slowly lowered his arm, the spymaster slid gently down the wall, smirking.

"My lord?" A voice was heard, cutting through the silence of the cell. "Your father has arrived in King's Landing."

**\- ROBERT -**

The aftermath of the sack was still visible as the ship glided into Blackwater Bay, though over a week had passed already. Smoke could still be seen rising up beyond the red walls of the capital, curling towards a clear sky in pillars and plumes above inns, winesinks, brothels, and homes. There were likely fewer fires now than there had been on the night the Lannisters arrived, but still the city burned.

It was a small boat, a simple trading cog whose purchase was brokered in the Whispering Sound over a light breakfast without much fuss. Maude Tyrell's quarters onboard weren't as spacious or elegant as the ones she had in Oldtown, but there were no bars on her window.

There was also nowhere for her to go.

Robert Manderly would have preferred to ride in one of the Tyroshi galleys purchased back on Bloodstone like the rest of his Golden Company, but it would not do to keep a prisoner such as Maude on a ship filled with sellswords, and he wanted to see to her safety personally. _Can't trust a man whose only god is coin. _For that reason, he rode in the improvised barge while half of his Golden Company followed in their own ships.

The sight of the Red Keep looming above the King's Landing from atop Aegon's Hill caused his breath to catch in his throat. It was a massive castle, and dwarfed the city below. Robert had never been to the seat of Westeros before.

_It's even __bigger than the stories tell it,_ he thought, _and smells a hundred times worse._

The small vessel pulled into the docks where two Lannister guards were stationed expectantly. _Ah, so the cunning Lion finally got himself a kingdom._

"Will you wait for a carriage, my lord?" one of the men in red cloaks stationed at the docks asked him. He looked too young to be garbed in armor and carrying steel, with a mane of neck long dark blonde hair, eyes sky blue and sharp features. What gave his age youth away, however, wasn't his outward appearance but rather the broad and easy grin on his face.

_No man smiles outside a burning city,_ Robert knew. _But plenty of boys do._

"I'm no lord, ser," Robert told him.

"And I'm no knight." The boy extended an armored hand. "Harlan Lannett," he introduced himself. "Heir to Nunn's Deep."

Robert noticed how he shook his hand with exaggerated firmness. "Robert Manderly, Lord Commander of the Golden Company. Lord Loren is expecting me. The Lannetts," he said, looking the boy over appraisingly. "Kin to the Lannisters."

"Aye." The boy was practically beaming now. "I rode through the gate with Damon Lannister, led the Nunn's Outriders in the van, I did."

"That's _King_ Damon Lannister, now, I understand."

"I know him well enough to call His Grace by name," boasted Harlan, and Robert had a feeling that King Damon would be surprised to learn that.

"I won't wait for a carriage, no," he told the eager lad. "I will take Lady Maude to the keep myself."

Harlan lifted his chin to peer behind the Commander's shoulder at the Tyrell captive, standing silently behind her escort. She was dressed simply by her own standards, in a rose colored gown with a lace bodice, and wore no jewelry.

_She'd be in trousers and a tunic if it were my choice,_ Robert thought. He knew what the streets of the city would be like, filled with roaming Lannister soldiers and half dead men with no reservations left about how to spend their numbered days. He'd sooner lead his men against all the Dothraki of the Great Grass Sea than an enticingly dressed maiden through a city that had just been sacked, but neither was waiting for a carriage on the docks with leering sailors and the same soldiers they'd find within the walls a tantalizing option.

He led Maude Tyrell from the docks to the Red Keep himself and she walked beside him cooperatively if not congenially. It would have been a crime to put irons on a woman as lovely as she, and so she wore none.

The atmosphere of the city was what he had expected. As Commander of the most elite army of sellswords in the known world, Robert had seen his fair share of war and its horrors. Sometimes the aftermath was worse than the battle itself.

With his akrah at his side and a few of his trusted men around him, Manderly feared nothing, not the prowling Lannister soldiers and the cries for help from the smallfolk they tormented nor the smouldering ruins of homes and storefronts, but Maude looked aghast.

He did not attempt to shield any of it from her. _She might as well get used to it. She'll see plenty more horror in these weeks to come._

The gates to the keep were open, but a dozen soldiers with spears stood waiting to greet any visitors. Once Commander Manderly explained who he was and his business they stepped aside, informing him that the Lord Hand was waiting. Robert had hardly met the man, but the Warden of the West's reputation preceded him. He knew that Loren Lannister was not a man to keep waiting.

"I'm afraid I'll have to bid you farewell once inside the castle, Lady Maude," he told his silent prisoner politely as they made their way towards the Red Keep's iron doors. "I don't think that your quarters in the Red Keep will be as comfortable as they were when you last visited the castle, but there are cells here built for captives of high birth."

He meant for the words to be reassuring, but they came out dry and flat as the red waste. Maude said nothing. She turned her golden brown eyes up towards the castle, and set her jaw like flint.

"If you behave yourself, perhaps they'll allow you to have visitors. You should try to make friends," he offered, following her gaze up to the the giant crimson banner that hung above the massive archway that was the castle's entrance. A golden lion roared resplendent on the flag.

"I imagine you'll be staying here for quite some time."

**\- THE REAPER -**

Durran Harlaw stood staring down at the map atop the table in his solar. Candlelight spilled across the frayed and yellow parchment, and wax dribbled down the candle and pooled at the bottom of its pricket.

"We strike at night. The Iron Fleet is at anchor at Pyke, we can catch them at unawares." His voice was low and rough from years of shouting orders over a roaring sea.

Rolf mumbled agreement and Ogo nodded but Baron was shaking his head. "They'd be blind to not see us coming," he said.

"Lord Aeron is-"

"Lord Aeron is a fool, yes, but Aeron doesn't control the Iron Fleet, Dagon does. And you can bet that Lady Alannys will not see the island fall so easily. That woman has as much bite as her husband did, and she has both loathed and distrusted you and our house ever since you sent Damron to his watery grave."

Durran's mouth tightened into a thin line amidst the stubble on his face as his kin continued. "This won't be another 'Smashing of the Shields,' cous. When we turned on the Greyjoys twenty five years ago we had Tyrius Lannister and Renly Baratheon on our side. Now Loren Lannister is married to Damron's _sister_ and Harys has not a ship to his name since the lion took the throne and the royal fleet. What you speak of is madness."

The Harlaw lord slammed a fish onto the map, rattling the tin war galley figurines atop it. "Madness? The realm is at war. This is the opportunity our house has been waiting for. The Lannisters hold the capital, they dare not stir from King's Landing. Not even to defend their cousins. Harys will see our victory as his own. I shall be named Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands and will declare for the Stag once the Scythe banner flies above Pyke. A defeat of the Greyjoys is a defeat of the Lannisters. Harys will thank us for it."

"Like he thanked us after the rebellion?"

The two other men watched Baron and his cousin's exchange somewhat nervously. Rolf in his drab gray surcoat nearly blended into the bleak surroundings of Lord Harlaw's solar, and Ogo envied the captain's invisibility as Durran looked to him expectantly.

"The battle has not yet been fought," he offered tentatively. "It is impossible to declare a victor. Besides, we cannot use the past to predict the future with certainty. Harys is not Renly." His reply seemed neutral enough to satisfy neither Durran nor Baron, judging by the daggers both men were shooting at him.

"And Alannys is not Damron," Baron pointed out. "We took the Greyjoys by surprise when we joined the Lannister fleet to crush them at the Shield Islands. There is no surprise this time, and the lions are with the kraken now. We have no allegiances to the Baratheons, why should we take it upon ourselves to fight their battles?"

"Because Loren Lannister won't give me the Iron Islands!" Durran's rage was plain on his face now, and his voice rose to fill the room.

"Fine. Set your sails for Pyke. It is _suicide_ and I will have no part of it." Baron turned and stormed from the room, leaving Durran with Rolf and Ogo. The tension did not depart with the captain, and Ogo shifted uncomfortably.

"He may be right, Lord Harlaw," he said tentatively. "Perhaps if we had more ships, more men... If Baron doesn't pledge his galley to your cause-"

"Andrik will."

"Aye, but his brother has the bigger one." Even Rolf nodded his agreement.

"I do not fear some kraken bitch!" The pieces went flying from the table and skittered across the floor. "I killed Damron, and I will kill his whore wife, too! I will kill every last Greyjoy on Pyke if I have to! These islands belong to _me!_ They should have been given to _me!"_

"We sail in a fortnight. Andrik will join me, and the rest of the fleet, too..." He turned to Rolf and Ogo. "You will make sure of it."

**\- THE TYRELL HOST -**

The capital of the Reach was often referred to as the "heart of chivalry," and Highgarden with its marble courtyards and trickling fountains was beautiful even in winter. The mood in Lord Baelor Tyrell's small council chambers, however, was ugly.

King Harys slammed his palm onto the letter on the table.

"Aerion Blackfyre?!" he bellowed, causing a few of the men at the table to flinch.

Lord Baelor was unaccustomed to seeing someone else seated in his chair at the head of the old oak table. Normally it would be himself, his sons, and his advisors in the tidy, sparsely furnished chamber of the castle where his council met. But when King Harys and his twenty thousand arrived at the Reach capital, the meeting room wasn't the only thing the Stag took over.

Harys moved into Lord Baelor's personal bed chambers, as they were more spacious than those reserved for guests. His rather rowdy entourage of cooks, servants, and courtroom entertainers also invaded various parts of the castle, including the kitchens and the quarters where the household staff lived. Baratheons were a boisterous folk and Lord Baelor's patience was running thin, but he tried to be an accommodating host given that a king was no ordinary guest. This king in particular had always been a good friend to Baelor, and as soon as this mess with Oldtown was sorted out he would make his daughter a queen.

_They will be gone soon, _he assured himself. _Though not soon enough._

Any merriment the guests might have been enjoying while waiting for the arrival of Tyrell bannermen, however, dissipated instantly when the raven from King's Landing arrived with news of the sack.

"No one had heard of him," Paxter Tarly said, glancing at Lord Baelor. He was a soft spoken man who had advised the Reach lord for decades, but had never before sat at a council table with the King of Westeros, and he was unsure how to proceed. "They say he has the shards of his house's ancestral sword and that-"

"How did this happen?!" Harys spoke right over the advisor. "How in seven hells did they get into the city?" he bellowed, silencing the room even further.

"The Lannisters entered through the Lion's gate, and the Bright Banners and the Maiden's Men came through the River Gate, your Grace."

"The River Gate?" Harys repeated, incredulous. "And how do you explain an army of sellswords slipping past the entire royal fleet at harbor?!"

Paxter shot a pleading glance to Lord Baelor who gave him an encouraging nod, urging him to continue.

"Ah, the uh… Lord Estermont let them in."

A look of surprise washed over the face of the King. Aemon Estermont served on his small council as Master of Ships, and had held the position for years. The shock soon vanished, replaced by rage.

"That two timing turncloak traitor!" He slammed his fist against the table.

"All is not lost, Your Grace," Paxtor said. "We've heard rumors that Ser Ulrich Dayne's death is just that... a rumor. Whispers tell us that he yet lives, hiding somewhere in the Stormlands, bringing the lords to your cause..."

"What other news do your envoys send you, Tarly? What of the Hand, Alester? What of my brother; what of my son? Speak up!"

Paxter fumbled to collect the papers he had strewn about the table. "I, um, Your Grace," he stammered. "The Targaryen, er, the Hand, Your Grace, is believed to have fled. Your son is taken hostage, but I have no cause to believe that he has been harmed. And ah, your, uh, your brother, he, uh…"

Lord Baelor stepped in to the rescue at last, speaking plainly and authoritatively.

"Joseph is dead, Your Grace."

The other men at the table shifted in their seats uncomfortably and averted their gazes, but Baelor did not look away from his king.

"He was slain in the streets of the city by Lord Loren Lannister's son, Damon."

Harys showed no reaction on his face at first, and Lord Baelor was starting to wonder if he had heard his words when he noticed the King's fists clenching atop the table until his knuckles were white.

Harys stood suddenly and snatched the wine pitcher from the table, turning to hurl it against the wall as he let out a mighty roar. The pitcher smashed and the wine sprayed against the wall, running down the grooves in the stones.

_More broken dishware_, Baelor thought. _In another month's time I will have to take out a loan from the Iron Bank just to clean this castle up._

The council members exchanged glances in the tense silence that followed as Harys stood staring at the shattered glass on the floor.

"Your Grace," Lord Baelor finally said, his voice calm. "I understand your pain. Thaddius Lannister has my son with him, and Benjen and Mellara are still missing. I don't know that the knight was involved in his father's treachery, but once he arrives at the capital to find Loren as Hand to a new king, you can be sure that Troy will used as a hostage."

He took a deep breath.

"My bannermen are arriving daily. Houses Grimm, Hewett, Merryweather, and Tarly are already here. Ashford will come on the morrow, Redwyne after that. It will take some time," he admitted, "and the Lannisters hold the advantage, but we will reclaim your seat and you will have your vengeance."

"I want that cub's head!" King Harys thundered, turning back to face the table. His steely blue eyes were alight with fury and his face was twisted into a look of glowering rage.

"And have it you shall," Baelor assured him. "Damon holds the position of Hand until his father arrives in the capital, after which the boy will likely return to Casterly Rock."

"I will burn Loren's castle to the ground!" Harys declared, slamming his fist against the table again.

Baelor sighed inwardly, but kept his face impassive.

"Casterly Rock is a rock, Your Grace. The fortress has never fallen. Damon will likely take much of his father's host back to Lannisport to defend the West." He reached towards the center of the table and pulled a map towards him, smoothing out the parchment and placing a finger down against the paper. "Our best bet would be to attack the Lions on the Gold Road, perhaps after Deep Den, where the cliffs narrow the pass and make it difficult for large armies to-"

"FUCK YOUR MAP!" King Harys boomed. He snatched the parchment from Lord Baelor and began ripping it to shreds, throwing the pieces about the table as the councilors stared in a mixture of disbelief and alarm. "Fuck the Gold Road! Fuck Deep Den and fuck the West!"

Once the map was obliterated, Harys stood panting at the head of the table, eyes darting from man to man yet seeing none of them.

"My brother is dead! This is no time to be making battle plans! You!" he turned and pointed a calloused finger at one of the lords.

_Lord Merryweather,_ Baelor knew, but he doubted that the King remembered the man's name. He had been calling them all by whatever title seemed to pop into his head first.

"Prepare the Great Hall for a feast! We will eat and drink in Joseph's name tonight, and honor his memory!"

Lord Merryweather was the commander of a thousand knights and had sat as a trusted advisor to his liege lord for over a decade, counseling Lord Baelor on matters of military and economics. To be commanded to make arrangements for a meal was an abhorrent insult, but Merryweather simply bowed his head in polite response.

_Gods bless him_, Baelor thought.

King Harys rounded on the other men and snarled, "We shall toast to my brother tonight, and the next person to say the name 'Lannister' will be the first thrown over the walls of the Red Keep when we march back to my home!"

Lord Baelor stared up at his King with a worried frown.

_IF we ever march back home…_

**\- DAMON -**

Loren Lannister was standing when the doors to the solar flew open, gazing down at a heavy wooden table covered in stacks of parchment, quills, and an inkwell or two. A newly lit candle burned brightly, illuminating the concentrated faces of a group of men huddled around him. His palms were pressed against the surface of the desk and he was speaking in a low voice.

"Connington moves to secure Storm's End, Hightower has the Golden Company at Oldtown..."

He looked up at his son's entrance and paused.

Damon's fist was clenched at his side. "You _knew_," he hissed.

Loren's gaze was as hard as stone. He waved his hand at the men surrounding his table. Their eyes darted apprehensively from the Lord Lannister to his son before bowing and shuffling out of the room hurriedly, closing the doors behind them.

They might as well have been invisible. Damon met his father's stare with an uncharacteristic fury.

"You knew the whole time," he said. "You sent me to sack this city, all so you could put a some _mummer _on the Iron Throne. You _married_ Ashara to him. You married your _daughter_ to that man and you widowed her! Why?!" His green eyes flashed with anger as his voice rose. He pointed to the door behind him, leading to the throne room. "Do you expect _me_ to sit on that throne?! Is that why you wed me to the dragon girl? You think you can prop me up on that - that _monstrosity?!_ So that I can be your puppet king?!"

The silence that followed seemed to stretch on for miles before the lord broke it.

"A puppet king." Loren's voice was ice, a striking opposite to the fire in Damon's eyes. "You naïve, stupid boy."

His voice rose, like black smoke from a charred field. "A lion does not sit, nor does he dance upon a puppet's strings. A lion RULES." A fist slammed down upon the heavy wooden table, accompanying the roar. "Did you expect to die with your drinks and whores, Damon? I've given you more than any one man could want, yet you would spit in my face rather than accept the responsibilities of your House."

Cold rage was plain on Loren's face, burning like an inferno in the ashes of his once calm demeanor.

"I've placed YOU on the throne, Damon. YOU with the armies of a hundred Houses at your back! YOU with a dragon wife, bound by blood to the Kings of old!" His eyes weighed his son as his words flew, just as they weighed him a hundred times before and a hundred times before that. "You think I've forgotten the shames you have brought this House? The women? The wine? Your heart is soft like a lamb, yet I call you son and sit you at my dining hall."

The fire burned low, yet growling could still be heard, filling the great chamber from the breath of the two lions.

"They call you Stagslayer..." Loren said pointedly, glancing at the sling upon Damon's arm. "…yet it is his badge of victory that you carry. Now is not the time to falter, it is the time to act."

The room grew still for a moment, the echoes of their shouting tapering off. Damon had borne his father's flogging his entire life, but now he had met something that he would not stand for.

"Joseph Baratheon died so that Aerion Blackfyre could be crowned King! _Aerion Blackfyre!_ That is who I took this city for - not for YOU, not for ME, not for the Lannisters nor Casterly Rock! If you want the Iron Throne, you can sit on the damnable thing yourself! I will have NO part of it!"

The rage left Loren's eyes, replaced with something unfamiliar to Damon.

"Joseph Baratheon died because he stood against a lion. His name will be lost in time, but yours will be remembered, and every scar given to you will be a medal of honor to those that would inflict it. You have no choice. Rule or not, crown or not, the Baratheons and their allies march. Whether you stand against them or bend the knee, they will have your head and the heads of those you hold dear."

Loren turned and Damon noticed for the first time the stoop in his back, the grey upon his head.

"So that is it then," he said quietly, "I surrender to Baratheon, and I die. I sit on his throne, and he and his allies spend the rest of their lives fighting for my head. They would slaughter my wife, they would hunt down my children, they would murder my brother and sister. Why would you do this to me?" The question was almost pleading. "If you did not think me fit to lord over Casterly Rock, why would you place me on the Iron Throne, to rule all of Westeros?"

The question hung in the air between the two of them and Damon watched the old lion in the flickering torchlight. The figure seemed pale and gaunt; a trick of the light perhaps, but Damon couldn't help but remember the man who had stood before him moments before. Where was that man now?

The silence stretched on, filling the empty spaces, and just as Damon turned to depart Loren spoke, a quiet thing, and one that was almost lost amongst the stillness.

"Your mother was beautiful when we first met."

The words threw Damon off guard, not just the change in topic but the softness of his father's voice.

Damon remembered little of his mother, she had died when he was a boy of six, and he had grown up without gentle touches or soft embraces. His memories of the Greyjoy woman were soft things, secrets squirreled away in the confines of his mind. A coo-ed lullaby, a mane of flowing brown hair, sunlight trickling through a glass window, yellow and white.

He had learned early on in his life not to mention the woman to his father, it was a topic that turned Lord Loren's mood sour and ended, more likely than not, at the end of a strap. When Damon returned from Pyke at the age of twelve his father had sat him down and told him of the baby sister, the little girl Ashara who had killed his mother with her life. The girl had seen six name days at the time, and from that point onward all the soft things had fled. By thirteen he had bedded his first woman.

To have his father speak of his mother now, to breach the sacred grounds of his childhood… it felt treasonous, and left Damon with the taste of bile in his throat.

"Gods, Damon." His father's voice was rough, calloused, as if the years had been working away at it, raw and blistered, and it had hardened now. "When I first laid eyes on her I knew she would be my wife, Baratheon King be damned. I'd never wanted anything like I'd wanted her, but she was a Greyjoy, and the Greyjoys were the enemy..."

Loren turned to his son then, and Damon's angry retort died in his throat. His father's face was broken. Sagging where resolve and dignity had once held it up proudly.

"Your mother held no love for Casterly Rock, Damon, but she would have made a wonderful queen."

Loren smiled then, a real smile. "And you were always your mother's son."

**\- SARELLA -**

"My Princess," the wisened old maester bowed before Sarella as he stood in the threshold of her solar, his long gray beard dusting against a beautiful Myrish rug. "It's time."

The rhythmic echo of Sarella's jeweled sandals could be heard pattering quietly along the empty hallway as she made her way to her father's chambers.

It was a trip she'd made thousands of times, beginning with when she first learned to walk. The cracks in the stone halls were now as familiar to her as the wrinkles on her father's face.

The light from the setting sun streamed in through the open windows, coloring the hallway with red and orange light. It was with a heavy heart that she made the journey this evening, knowing that this sunset would be her father's last.

Sarella paused on the threshold and took a deep breath before she opened the door and stepped inside.

Prince Arryn was lying on his bed, the furs and silks drawn up around him with his gaunt, palid face turned facing the last few rays of the sun streaming in through the window. His attendants bowed to the Princess and stepped from the room as Sarella took a seat beside her father's bed.

"My sweet child," he spoke in a whisper and reached up to brush his hand softly against her cheek. A violent cough shook his shrunken frame and Sarella placed her hand over his own and squeezed. "Dorne is yours now," he managed to say.

"I don't know if I'm ready," she confessed with a sad smile. "There's so much I don't know, so much I don't understand... I've never even traveled outside our borders before for more than a week or so."

Arryn returned the grin weakly. "Then it's a good thing you will only be ruling within them."

The sun continued its slow journey towards the horizon, and the room gradually grew dimmer as the two sat in comfortable silence.

"Do you remember your mother?" Prince Arryn asked after a long moment, drawing a deep wheezing breath.

"Of course I do."

The Lady Martell died when Sarella was still a girl, but she could recall her mother's face easily. The image in her head was of a Princess healthy and whole, her brown eyes filled with life and her bronze skinl all aglow, not like she had been on her death bed. Then her face whitened and her eyes emptied as the viper's venom stole her away from the world. Sarella didn't like to remember that Princess.

"I once told her the same thing, when my father died. Do you know what she said to me?"

Sarella shook her head.

"Nothing. She struck me." He began to chuckle, but the effort winded him and he quickly fell silent, catching his breath. "The gods don't care if you're ready," he said, his eyes sparkling. "They do what they want regardless. That's why they're gods."

"And we are just men," Sarella said, apprehension on her face and in her voice. "And men make mistakes. Mistakes that can have enormous consequences when one rules an entire kingdom. Men are fallible, and fragile, and often times they don't have the slightest idea what they're doing."

Prince Aryyn rubbed his thumb over her knuckles and gave her hand the smallest squeeze.

"Then it's a good thing you're not a man."

He smiled and turned his gaze away from her to watch the last of the day's light fade as the sun finally set.

**\- RYMAR -**

Rymar Royce was a man used to prying eyes.

Brown eyes, green eyes, blue eyes, even violet eyes... All sorts of them, gazing across the realm from the frigid frontier of the Wall to the boiling sands of Dorne. What the Master of Whisperers _wasn't _used to were those eyes not belonging to him.

The ones he saw now stared down at from the severed heads of men decorating spikes on the battlements of the Red Keep, following him as he was prodded along by the Lannister guards. These men in red cloaks hadn't yet tasted the mummer's coin, their eyes were foreign and colder than any winter the Valeman had ever lived through.

The heads blamed him. _You could have prevented this, _they said, and the guards shunned him with his strange tattoos and small frame, drowning in robes of rusty bronze. _Freak_, their eyes said.

The throne room held even more eyes, and ears too, but none of them gave Rymar enough attention to make him feel uncomfortable. Not like when the guards burst into the small chambers he had in Maegor's Holdfast.

Every pupil was focused on the man at the foot of the Iron Throne, and every ear attuned to his booming voice.

"The Targaryens once stood where I stand now," Loren Lannister was saying, "conquering the seven kingdoms with flames and blood! Westeros bowed to them and to the Baratheons who followed, staking their claim on the Trident with Robert, the corpses of their opposition dead on their swords!"

The eyes Rymar was particularly interested in were not visible. The King atop the chair of tangled metal had his gaze cast to the floor. Damon looked as though he wished to disappear.

"A king of this land takes by blood! He takes by force! He takes by power! What blood more righteous than the Lion? What force mightier than the armies of the Westerlands? What power more devastating than the iron fist of Casterly Rock?"

Loren's voice was loud but cold, a fierce wind off the Bay of Ice. At the back of the hall, flanked by soldiers, Rymar could only shiver as it went through him.

No one in the room stirred, their gazes transfixed on the Warden of the West. With a sudden, startling sound, the banners unfurled. Huge, crimson flags were unraveled from the balcony, and the golden Lannister lion roared resplendent upon them. A few women gasped, men looked up at the sigil fearfully, and a ghost of a smile appeared on Lord Loren's face.

"None," he said, his voice so quiet that from his place in the back, Rymar had to strain to hear him. He watched as the Lannister unrolled a sheet of parchment and held it up to read aloud.

"In place of the traitor, Alester Targaryen," he called out across the hall, "it is the will of his Grace that Loren Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West, be appointed Hand of the King."

A hushed murmur swept through the crowd, and the small smile on Loren's face seemed to widen ever so slightly. Rymar saw the Tyroshi captain at his side cringe for a moment, but then his hard gaze flew to the Master of Whisperers and Rymar averted his eyes.

"The King also wills," Loren continued, "that Ser Thaddius Lannister of the Kingsguard take the place of Ser Jaime Florent as the order's Lord Commander."

Rymar had his doubts that the young man on the throne had willed _any_ of this. He looked downright miserable on the great seat of iron, as still and motionless as a corpse, almost as though he worried that any movement at all would result in one of the jagged, rusty swords at his back wounding him.

A reasonable concern. The Iron Throne likely had more claws than even his Lion father.

"The false King, Harys Baratheon, will be considered a traitor unless he presents himself before the King within a month's time to swear fealty. The traitor's son, Rickon Baratheon, will be held as a guest by the King, until such a time as the loyalty and allegiance of House Baratheon has once again been established."

_Rickon._

Rymar had expected this, but that did not make it sit any better with him. Loren rolled the sheet of parchment back up.

"All those that do not swear fealty to Damon Lannister, the rightful King, will be considered traitors of the throne and will hereby be relinquished of all lands and titles and put to death." He raised his arm and pointed in the direction of the throne behind him.

"Swear, my lords! Swear your loyalty to the Iron Throne! Swear your allegiance to my son, Damon Lannister! Swear fealty to your rightful king!"

They did. Rymar watched as one by one the lords and ladies present in the Throne Room went and bowed before the Iron Throne and the uncomfortable man who sat it. He recognized lords from the Westerlands in huge numbers, but there were Riverlanders as well, and men from the Crownlands. Even a few from the Reach were present, all likely lingering guests to Harys' feast, or friends of his who had come seeking the favors and coin the Stag king was so quick to dole out.

It felt like ages had passed before the Tyroshi shoved Rymar forward, pushing him through the crowd until he found himself at the foot of the dais. The men and women in the audience parted easily enough for him, as if trying to avoid touching the Master of Whisperers. Some even shot him dark glares, but most avoided looking at him entirely.

_Is there anyone more loathed than a spy?_ Rymar wondered. _Is there any job more thankless than this?_ _Or more important?_

The Tyroshi sellsword pushed him to his knees before the throne, and Rymar felt the soft Myrish carpet through his robes. "Your Grace," he spoke to the floor, "it is an honor to stand before you. As the Master of Whisperers I serve the realm, and it would by my honor to continue to do so under its new king."

He did not look up, nor did he raise his voice. It wasn't the King's gaze that he felt boring into him, it was the Hand's.

"For the benefit of the realm?" Loren hissed, "Do not mistake yourself, it is for the benefit of the Lannisters that you serve now. You are not irreplaceable, Master of Whisperers. Do not forget that."

"My Lord Hand," Rymar replied calmly. "I meant no offense. The Lannisters are what is best for the realm, better than the Stag ever was or ever could have hoped to be. If it is my loyalty that you want, then know that you already have it."

_And you've had it longer than you realize._

"Those who are loyal shall know the lion's generosity," Loren said. "Those who prove false shall know a traitor's death."

The Tyroshi captain hauled him to his feet and shoved him back towards the crowd, and the Lord Hand called out to his back when the Master of Whisperers turned to depart.

"A Lannister always pays his debts," he said. "You would do well to remember such things."

Rymar tried to hide the smile that played at the corners of his lips.

_Oh believe me, Lord Loren,_ he thought, _I've been counting on it._

**\- DANAE -**

The free cities bustled with trade. An endless sea of people flowed between the nine city-states grouped along the western coast of the eastern continent, but Danae never saw anything beyond the harbors.

The ship that Summer's master had directed them to was a broad and sturdy cog, a merchant vessel full of gold destined for Volantis. Along its journey, it stopped to spend that gold on spices from Pentos, fine lace and silk from Myr, pear brandy and dyes from Tyrosh, and wines from Lys.

In each new city, Danae made the climb from below deck to the ship's surface, her petite frame wrapped in a ragged brown cloak that covered her hair, hoping for a quick glimpse of the world around her before the Grand Maester came to insist she return to her cramped quarters aboard _The Shy Maiden_ so that her presence would remain a secret.

"Aeslyn's spies are everywhere, my lady." Grand Maester Orin would speak with inflated authority and shake his head at the Targaryen in disapproval before disembarking to conduct his own mysterious errands, leaving Danae to hole up with Summer and James while they waited for his inevitable return, just as the ship prepared to sail again.

The sailors of the ship joked that the vessel was named for Danae, teasing her reclusive nature. She hated hiding below deck, even though she enjoyed the company of the two water dancers, Summer having quickly become as much of a friend to her as James was.

Their time in each city was short. The goods of the ship were unloaded and merchants traveled to and from the docks to trade with the captain. The waterdancers played cards, drank ale, and practiced their swordplay while Danae read through every book she could find on the ship at least twice. James often ventured out to the harbors briefly, returning with food for their group and small trinkets for Danae.

Each night Danae curled up to rest beside Persion. His pearly white scales warmed her as their bed rocked back and forth in time with the movement of the ship. It became increasingly difficult for the maester to draw Danae away from the waterdancers so that they could speak in private.

In the beginning of their journey from Braavos, he would knock on the door to the small room Danae shared with Persion every night. His presence in the room made her uncomfortable, as he frequently chose to sit beside her on the cramped bed when diving into a long and rambling lecture of the magic of Valyria.

In Pentos, Summer had stumbled upon one of the awkward meetings one night as she was making her way back to her room with the guard Jon. She immediately took to sleeping in Danae's room and as the visits from the maester dwindled, the two girls became even closer. Summer would regal Danae with tales of her amorous adventures. Some shocked the Targaryen, some made her laugh, and nearly all of them made her pale cheeks flush redder than the dragon on her family's banner.

Several days after they departed from Lys, Danae sat below deck and ran her fingers along Persion's spinal crest as the dragon snorted in his sleep. She laughed softly when black smoke curled from his nostrils, then looked up at a quiet knock on the door.

"M'lady." Summer appeared in the threshold, and a sarcastic and exaggerated curtsy accompanied her coy smile. "We approach the harbor of the old and proud city of Volantis. Thought you might want to see."

Danae rose quickly, opened her trunk, and gently place the lazy dragon inside. She shut the door behind her and nodded to the Grand Maester's guards, who took their place outside the room, and then she climbed the steps to the deck with Summer.

The heat and humidity of the southern Essosi city hit Danae in full force as she stood above deck. She was just in time to see Grand Maester Orin step quickly off the boat, and Danae stood on her toes to watch him navigate through the docks before finally stopping beside a trade vessel flying a Westerosi sigil with an orange and red sun and spear.

_What business does the maester have in Dorne?_

Danae tugged at the cloak as beads of sweat dotted her forehead and she gazed upon Volantis for the first time. The city possessed an old and worn beauty, the cracks in its facade showing the age in its once extravagant exterior like wrinkles on an aged face. The bay alone looked large enough to swallow Braavos in its entirety.

On the eastern half of the city, she saw a huge wall of fused black stone erupting from the earth towards the sky. Danae recalled from her readings that the wall was constructed thousands of years ago, when the city was nothing more than an outpost of the empire of Old Valyria. To this day, only those who could trace their blood back to Valyria were allowed to enter within the Black Wall. Inside its sprawling walls were the lords of ancient ancestry who controlled the city.

_The Old Blood_, they called themselves, and Danae scoffed at the thought. _Their blood may be old, but mine is of the real Valyria and not some outpost. My blood is that of dragons._

On the western horizon, a four story monstrosity rose beside the harbor. It looked to be a dim labyrinth of alcoves build around a courtyard with a trellia of flowering vines. Summer followed Danae's gaze.

"The Merchant's House," she offered. "They say it is the finest inn in all of the free cities. Its common room is supposed to be larger than half of the great halls in Westerosi castles. I hear the doors have very strong locks, and every room holds thousands of secrets from centuries past."

"I'm sure you can find the same secrets in any brothel," Danae rolled her eyes at the inn's ostentatious appearance. "Or in the Red Keep."

Before Summer had a chance to respond, James approached from below deck and bowed his head before taking his place at Danae's side and turning his eyes to the city.

"Captain Doniphos tells me the city is uneasy, m'lady," he spoke quietly. "He says there is unrest among the political parties concerning their questionable alliances with the other free cities. They spend their days squabbling over alliances with magisters, archons, and sealords and they ignore the growing needs of the city and its vast number of people."

Danae recalled little of what she had read on Volantene politics. The ever-changing triarchs of men who called themselves tigers and elephants proved dull reading._Tigers and elephants who are the key to the slave trade. S_he thought on the reputation of the city. _It has been written that there are at least five slaves for every free man in Volantis._

"Volantis has a large population to ignore, and I'd rather not stay to see how this story evolves. Is this the end of the captain's trade route?" she asked. "Do we set off from here for the Demon Road?"

"It seems Doniphos is willing to present us with an alternative option, Danae," James replied. "He is willing to grant us passage to a port along the road so that he can meet with a trade envoy from Mantarys. The good captain is looking to expand his commerce into transporting slaves between Mantarys and Volantis," James looked behind him and swept the area above deck with his hazel eyes before continuing. "He led me to believe that the Grand Maester has paid him quite extravagantly to do so. Where does the man's money come from?"

Danae and Summer looked at each other and shrugged. In truth, Danae had often wondered the same thing.

"Doniphos also spoke of fire spells saturating the land along the Demon Road," James said, "and as I expected, he told me we're all insane. We can march from the Demon Road down to the ruins of Oros, but we won't be able to find a ship willing to take us into the Smoking Sea."

While he was talking, Danae noticed several slaves with bent backs pass by their ship. Each wore an intricate tattoo on his or her face, ranging from tears to flames, and even the stripes of a tiger.

"Perhaps we_ are_ mad. What lies beyond the Demon Road but magic_? _Provided they don't kill us, these fire spells could be exactly what we seek for Persion,"Danae spoke quietly as her eyes darted across the scene in the harbor below."We've known the dangers of this adventure all along, but the rewards could be beyond our wildest imagination. We survive the ruins and I take back the Iron Throne, or we perish in the attempt. What could this journey end in but fire and blood?"

Danae reached to wipe the sweat from her brow and took a deep breath of the humid air. "But if we must die, then what better way to do so?"

"Valar Morghulis," Summer and James responded in unison, though Summer replied with a hearty vigor and a smile while James grew pale.

"Tell the captain we leave upon the Grand Maester's return," Danae told Summer.

She lifted the hood from her head as she disappeared from view below deck with James on her heels. The sweltering heat had dampened her hair and she reached back to pull her long tresses away from her neck. "I do not wish to remain in this atmosphere any longer than we must," she told the waterdancer.

James raised a hand to wipe the sweat gathering on his own face, unsure if the atmosphere she referred to meant the sweltering heat of the tropical climate, or the city itself with its tattooed slaves, strange edifices, and rumored unrest.

He nodded his agreement. "I couldn't agree more."

**\- VARYO -**

Varyo brooded up the Gold Road with the Bright Banners. His anger had been fierce when he killed Aerion, but the black cells had calmed and soothed it; there was only a cold rage in him when Loren Lannister came to see him.

"Too soon to be named Kingslayer, Varyo," he had told him. "It is far earlier than we had planned."

_War makes fools of us all_, the Velaryon knew, and told the Hand as much as he squinted in the light of Loren's torch. Now he rode beneath the light of the low hanging sun, his horse's hooves plodding along the frozen ground, beating the cold earth into submission as he led his sellswords to Stony Sept.

_The Riverlands will bow,_ he knew. _Or they will burn._

Emmon Baelish thought himself a clever man, but even a fool can tell which way the wind blows and Emmon seemed oblivious to the gale that was sweeping across Westeros. Dorne could afford to be neutral, Varyo knew, but the Riverlands with its shallow coffers and lack of natural borders made a poor professor of peace.

_They will profess their love of the new king soon, _Varyo thought. _A flayed man will profess anything._

He shifted in his saddle. His body still ached from its confinement and the hard riding did not make for an easy transition to freedom. Still, he was glad to be rid of the darkness of a cell and sit again stop a horse with a mission, though he could not say what he expected awaited him upon its completion.

_A headsman, perhaps._ Varyo had told Lord Loren his thoughts on that as well. "Damon hates me for it," he had said, but the father replied with certainty in his cheerless, monotone voice.

"Damon can be swayed. The boy sometimes acts as if he were honorable." Loren made some bitter sound that might have been a laugh. "What honor he finds in the bottoms of his cups..."

Varyo pushed any thoughts of the distant future from his mind. He had to focus on what lay ahead. The Lannisters had sent him forth with his company and instructions to use it, and he intended to follow through.

They passed through a village after they crossed the Blackwater rush. It was small, but its holdfast - if one could call the small tower attached to a courtyard a holdfast - still flew the crowned stag of Baratheon.

"Take the village," Varyo ordered. "I want to see who hung this flag."

"You heard the lord, you sons of whores, take the village!" Yarro Brokensteel bellowed.

Some of the village guard resisted, but old steel was no use against the honed blades of the Bright Banners, and soon the villagers were lined up outside the sad little castle.

The lord was dragged forward by two of Varyo's men, along with his village guards. _What useless excuses for soldiers._

He pleaded and begged and threatened, but all that stopped when he was thrown before Varyo's horse.

Varyo still wore his eastern armor, but now the half-cape had been accented with a hooded-cloak of black. _Black like the cells, black like Aerion's blood on the throne._

He fixed his mismatched eyes on the man, and regarded him blankly.

"Did you fly this flag?" he questioned.

The lordling spat in Varyo's direction and sneered in reply. "Long live the true King, _Harys Baratheon._"

"You see this man?" Varyo called out to the villagers. "He is loyal to the stag king, but we have a new king now. The penalty for treason is death."

The once proud lord wept like a child as they strung him up from the trees in front of his smallfolk. His guards joined him soon enough, and four of the Tyroshi took their rewards from the village maidens, who were on the trees soon after.

They left the village with its holdfast burning.

_A lion yet has claws,_ Varyo thought, forcing himself to look at the hanging figures. _This is what war looks like._

They passed the Blackwater Rush two days after, and left the Gold Road going. Behind their baggage train, the crows were already gorging themselves.

**\- THE STORMLORD -**

Orys Connington gazed thoughtfully at the ancient castle wall. They were higher and thicker than any other, and the keep's great tower rose to the heavens like a vast stone fist smashing out from the rocks beneath.

_How am I to take that?_ the Griffin wondered from atop his destrier. _Not by force, if I can help it._

He was certain he could.

The Stormlands had declared for Damon Lannister and proclaimed Orys Connington their Lord Paramount, but the last bastion of Baratheon rule still stood tall and proud on the edge of Shipbreaker Bay, and until the crowned stag atop the battlements were pulled down and replaced with the griffin of House Connington, Orys' rule would be no more than a joke to the Stormlords.

He had to take Storm's End, whatever the cost.

As he gazed at the vast gray fort, he contemplated what was going on inside. Harys had taken all the Baratheon troops down south, so he doubted there would be anyone left to marshal. That gave Orys some solace. He knew that however many men were left inside, they wouldn't be enough to defeat the mighty Connington host surrounding Storm's End.

Banners proudly flapped in the wind, adorning the camp with the nightingales of Caron, the moths of Horpe, the suns and moons of Tarth. Colors and shapes of all sorts, all closing in on the black stag of Baratheon that flew atop the main keep.

The only Stag left inside Storm's End was a boy by the name of Cleos Baratheon. Orys was not a stranger to the child. He was Harys' youngest brother, but at three-and-ten he was shorter than any Baratheon ought to be and had arms like twigs. Shy, weak, and said to be a craven, the boy was Baratheon only in name, and nothing else.

And yet he was the house's last hope. The thought made Orys smile.

If the craven yielded the castle as expected, he would be taken hostage and used as a bargaining chip to deal with Harys. If he chose to fight, however, most likely the boy would be killed. Orys was counting on the boy's cowardice to avoid bloodshed.

Now that the swollen sun was edging towards the horizon, Orys was mounted and ready to ride to the castle gates to treat with Cleos as they had arranged. He glanced once more at the castle from atop his destrier, drinking in the sight of his future home, then kicked his heels into the horse's flanks and shot off as his squire galloped close behind bearing a banner crowned with the red-and-white griffins of his house.

The gate swung open with a sorrowful creak when Orys and his honor guard approached, and out rode a small boy atop a palfrey that still looked far too large for him. Cleos Baratheon swayed in the saddle, struggling to control the horse, as Orys rode confidently towards him. The stag's guards drew their swords as the Griffin approached, yet Orys simply smirked and waved a friendly hand towards Cleos.

"My boy," Orys called out to the keeper of Storm's End. "Thank you for meeting with me here."

Cleos glanced shyly at the Lord of Griffin's Roost, then let his eyes fall to the ground, unsure of what to say or how to react. The most resplendent of the guards accompanying him, seemingly the castle's castellan, spoke up after a moment's silence. "This is Cleos of the House Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, and you will address him as my lord, not boy." Cleos' eyes went briefly to the castellan, but his head remained bent down towards the muddy earth below.

Orys nodded in feigned apology. "I beg your pardon, my lord." He waited for an answer, but when none came he cleared his throat and called out, "I have come to negotiate your surrender, not sit in silence. My lord, I-"

"You can have it." Cleos' gaze was still firmly planted on the ground, but at least he was addressing Orys now. In his soft, timid voice, he continued, "Storm's End is yours if you… if you allow me to escape. Ser Edmure said it'd be so, and Maester Guymon, he…" The boy's voice trailed off as he shyly raised his head to look Orys in the eye.

_So he really is a coward,_ Orys thought smugly. He grinned widely and warmly. "So you yield?"

Cleos Baratheon shrugged his narrow shoulders slightly, his face etched with uncertainty. "Y-yes, I suppose…"

"Very wisely done, my lord!" Orys beamed. "Give me an hour or two, and I shall return with the main part of my host to take the castle into my command. I assure you, you will be treated kindly, young Cleos, and as-"

"No." The word cut through Orys' joy like a sword piercing through armor. The castellan had a grim look on his face as he spoke. "Lord Cleos has demanded he be pardoned and allowed to go free in return for his cooperation. Allow him to go, my lord, and you shall have the castle and all that being the Lord of Storm's End entails. But should you hold my lord hostage here, we can and will keep our gates closed until King Harys arrives to liberate us."

Orys let off a loud, sharp laugh. "You cannot survive a siege, ser. That brave and valiant king of yours emptied the stores when he took his entire army south to save his Tyrell woman. I know it, and you know it, so let us put aside the jest, shall we?" His eyes grew cold and dark, and his voice was laced with menace. "Give me Cleos, and give me Storm's End, and you and the rest of your folk will be spared from my host's wrath. If you fail to comply, I shall be forced to starve you out, which shouldn't take more than a fortnight if I am correct in my presumptions. You have my terms, ser. I expect to see the gates wide open for me in an hour's time. I know what I would do if I were in your position."

Orys Connington spurred his mount and rode off back the way he came.

When he reached his tent, Orys commanded his squire to fetch him a roast rabbit stuffed with herbs and spices, along with a glass of Arbor Red to wash it down. The meal was ready within ten minutes, and it tasted of victory and triumph.

Outdoors, thunder growled angrily and dark clouds rolled over the land, spitting rain down onto the Stormlands. The canvas of the tent fluttered noisily as a cold, sharp wind swept over the land.

When an hour was up, Orys stepped outside his tent and found his men ready and awaiting his orders. He mounted up, then gazed over his army towards the castle. Sure enough, its gates lay wide open, like arms awaiting embrace. Yet something still felt wrong.

"Lord Connington!" It was Corliss Caron, hurrying towards Orys and waving his arms in the air to get his attention. "Lord Connington, ship spotted!"

Orys frowned. He had chosen not to bring any naval support with him to Storm's End, as House Baratheon had just one ship docked there. It was a good distance from the castle itself, anchored down at a stony beach below the cliffs on which the castle was perched. Orys had deemed it no danger, and had chosen to ignore it and focus on sieging Storm's End first, but as he rode up to the cliff's edge with Lord Caron, the ship was taking sail, edging its way from the shore towards the freedom of Shipbreaker Bay.

It was hard to tell what was going on aboard the ship from so far away, but Orys could guess. One of the figures on the distant vessel was smaller than the rest, no larger than a mere boy.

_Cleos Baratheon, trying to escape his fate. _Orys' face remained impassive. _Well so be it. He is already dead in the water, such a shame, but better dead than alive and free._

The ship struggled against the wind and the waves and its yellow sails adorned with the crowned stag of Baratheon flapped and flailed madly. It swayed sickeningly as it crashed from one tall wave to another, and then disappeared beneath a huge wave only to re-emerge several seconds later.

"I can send out archers to try and slow its progress, my lord," Corliss Caron was saying, but Orys silenced him by raising his hand.

"I do not think we need to take action here, Lord Caron," Orys said. "The storm will surely take care of this one."

And it did. Shipbreaker Bay lived up to its name and swallowed the tiny ship whole with one huge crash of foam and saltwater. Orys Connington watched with a look of nonchalance on his hard face. When the scattered remains of the boat were scattered by the sea, he stared for a moment longer, then pulled on the reigns and drove his horse towards the open gates of Storm's End.

**\- VARYO -**

It had been a miserable march. Varyo split the Bright Banners up into a selection of raiding groups and foraging parties, but now the men were beginning to meet at their main target.

The town stood low on a hill, with a small stockade around it. The sellswords had surrounded it, but they hadn't been as silent as Varyo would have liked, and the town had prepared for their coming.

His battle leaders were around him as they viewed from a nearby ridge.

"They should have prepared a number of defenses," a large Summer Islander that went by Keen Bequo said pointing to the main gate. "But we should have that gate down before the moon is high. I have a steel horse ram on one of the carts."

"It won't be as easy as the other villages," the Blight complained, tugging on his filthy beard. "There will be a good number of swords, maybe even some hedge knights."

"You smell of shit and wine, old man," the new Tyroshi captain they called Maidensblood replied. "It's high time we had a real battle, nothing gets your rod hard like killing men! Blood on the blades then blood down there!"

Varyo regarded them in silence, his eyes cold and focused.

"Get the ram, the town is taken before the hour of the wolf. I want the lordling alive and I want the holdfast unharmed."

The town burned barely an hour after. The guards were mostly green boys on the outer walls, and had turned and run when close to a thousand swords made it to the walls. One hedge knight had attempted to corral some of the more experienced town watch into a shield wall. Maidensblood rode the man down laughing, and soon the defense had completely collapsed.

The holdfast was no better. It was mostly well constructed, but many of the doors were barely stronger than that of a croft, and these were splintered in no time by the siege hammers.

The townsfolk were shepherded out onto the green beside the sept steps that gave the town its name. The remnants of the defense had been nailed to the green's trees, bringing forth shocked cries from some of the assembled smallfolk.

"These men were traitors to your new king!" Varyo called to the crowd, "and this man most of all."

The lordling was brought out stripped. He spat and fought when they had caught him, and had even driven his sword into one of Yarro's men, but eventually, three teeth, two broken ribs and an eye later, he had become more meek.

"Now he suffers the fate of any who will oppose the King."

Two of his more brutal men brought out the sharp hooked knives flayers were fond of.

They eventually listened to the lordling's pleas for death and he was hung over the sept steps. They had taken all the skin from his legs and blood stained the stones of the town square.

"If you do not present a threat to me," Varyo told the crowd "I shall not have to do any more flaying, and you shall find me a kind guest."

He rode his steed to his new lodgings in the holdfast, deeply conscious of the silence that followed him.

**\- THADDIUS -**

Beneath a bleak and cloud streaked sky of gray, the white knight led his prisoners through the city gates. They weren't as crowded as they were when Thaddius had ridden out with King Harys. There were no bustling merchants, no fishermen, no smallfolk crowding the market stalls.

"Welcome to King's Landing!" He announced, his cheerful tone odd given the somber backdrop of the capital. "And we've arrived not a moment too soon. Your brother is starting to smell something terrible."

The severed head of Benjen Tyrell sat rotting in a sack in his killer's lap. Flies buzzed about it noisily, flitting in and out of rotting orifices, but the eldest Tyrell was lost to his surroundings and took no notice it seemed.

The Tyrell siblings shared a mount after Troy became too weak to walk any further. The heir to Highgarden and his little sister Mellara were both sober and sullen atop the horse, and made no protest when pulled from the saddle upon their arrival at the Red Keep.

"Be sure to find a good spike for that," Thaddius told a soldier in the crimson armor of his father's house, nodding at the decomposing head. The Lannister knight didn't give the pair a second glance as they were dragged away, bound for some cell on the second level of the dungeons. He was eager to see his father again, and his brother, too, if Damon were still loitering in the capital.

_An entire castle filled with wine and comforts worthy of a king, why would he be in any rush to leave?_

Thaddius had done a lot of thinking on the journey to King's Landing. He thought about the vows he swore to Harys Baratheon, he thought about a son's duty to his father, he thought about what it meant to be a Lannister and imagined what how it would feel to wear red and gold instead of white.

He also thought about Jojen Stark and that night they had spent in Lord Harroway's town, despite his best efforts to forget it. _A mistake,_ he told himself.

In his boot he had tucked the black handkerchief of Aeslyn Targaryen, with its three headed dragon embroidered in red. The memory of their encounter at the tourney made his heart race, and the token itself served as a reminder that what occurred in the tavern was an accident not likely to happen again.

_I must be rid of this damned white cloak. After that, I can wed Aeslyn and forget all about that wolf pup._ Thaddius was certain it could be done. With Aerion Blackfyre on the throne and his father as Hand of the King, Loren Lannister had the power to release him from his vows. The proper bit of gold into the High Septon's hands and Thaddius would be a free man.

He wasn't quite sure how he would get the Targaryen to marry him, or his father to allow him to forsake the Kingsguard, but he knew that he could count on his older brother's help. Damon always knew how to talk to girls, and despite the rocky relationship he had with their father he could still be very convincing.

Thaddius made his way through the castle unmolested. His armor and his cloak announced his station and men and women scurried out of his way as he walked past, tall and golden haired, headed for the Tower of the Hand.

He tried to plan out what he would say to his father as he strode along the grounds of the Red Keep. _I will tell him the truth, _he thought. Loren always seemed to know when he was lying, only honesty would work. _I will tell him about the Targaryen, and about the children she could bear me. They say he loved my mother fiercely, surely he will understand._

He was admitted to Lord Loren Lannister's solar without delay and found his father hunched over his desk, quill in hand, an orderly stack of papers to his left and a inkwell to his right. The solar was sparse, unlike how Thaddius remembered it from his last visit, when the tower and its apartments belonged to Alester Targaryen.

The wine cabinet had been removed, the tapestries of dragons taken down, the lavish decorations of gold and silver and onyx removed. Now the room looked simple, a few Myrish carpets sprawled across cold stone floors, a tidy desk was centered and three carved oak chairs surrounded it. A single painting hung on the wall, a mountainous landscape that for all its majesty still looked cold.

Loren Lannister himself was as intimidating as ever, even seated. His hair, once as yellow as Thaddius', was gray and thinning, only streaks of gold remaining. His eyes though, those had never changed. They were as green as summer's grass and as hard as Valyrian steel and the youngest Lannister son knew his father's gaze could cut just as sharply.

"Thaddius." Loren set the quill down when his son entered, turning his attention towards the knight. His face was as unreadable to Thaddius as ancient Ghiscari, a placid expression in place that neither revealed joy in seeing him nor provided any glimpse into the Warden's thoughts of his arrival.

"Father." Thaddius glanced at one of the empty chairs before the desk but did not sit. He gave a stiff bow. "I've brought two Tyrell children as hostages for King Aerion, Troy the heir to Highgarden and Mellara, the youngest daughter."

"Aerion is dead." His father's expression did not change. "Your brother is King."

Thaddius couldn't hide his bewilderment. He frowned in confusion but before he could open his mouth, Loren stood. The sound of the chair's wooden legs scraping against the floor was the only one in the room but for the quiet crackling of a fire burning low in the hearth beneath the painting.

"You are the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard now."

Thaddius felt his stomach clench into a tight knot. _No, no, no, that is not how this conversation is supposed to be going._

His father came to his side and placed a hand on Thaddius' shoulder. Loren did not reach his son's height, and was as slender in his later years as he had been in youth, but the hand felt heavier than mail.

"You honor me, father." Thaddius swallowed, and forced a smile. _Tell him, tell him now!_

"I had thought, however-"

"You will need a new sword," Loren interrupted, glancing down at the one Thaddius had sheathed at his hip. "To accompany your new station." He removed his hand, allowing Thaddius to breathe once more, and turned his back to him as he crossed the room quietly. "I have one in mind, but I'm afraid you'll have to wait. It is not here. I'll retrieve it myself, once the time is right."

He moved to the fire and stared into the glowing coals. Thaddius was grateful for the lack of eye contact. Perhaps it would make it easier to say what he wanted to, what he _needed_ to. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of how to begin.

"Father, I wanted to talk to you," he started hesitantly, gaze turned towards the floor. The pattern in the Myrish carpet was far easier to look at than even the back of his father's head. It was a deep shade of burgundy with swirls of rusty yellow climbing and clambering up its length. Blood and gold.

"The Kingsguard is a great… a great honor." Thaddius swallowed again. "But what will people say? I can't… I was sworn to Harys Baratheon."

"What people say is irrelevant," Loren stated bluntly, turning back to face him. "You are a Lannister, Thaddius, and you are my son. No one has the right to judge you… No one."

"I just thought that maybe-"

"You have attained the very highest rank of knighthood," Loren cut him off again. "My son, the most skilled swordsman alive in this realm. My son, leader of the finest knights in all of Westeros. My son, the Lord Commander."

Thaddius stood motionless.

"You are the pride of his house, Thaddius."

Perhaps it was just the strange light that the fire in the hearth cast, but it almost seemed as though Loren Lannister was wearing the faintest of smiles upon his hard and rigid face.

"You are _my_ pride."

**\- NATHANIEL -**

The desk was covered in parchment - letters, declarations, tallies, and requests.

It was unlike Lord Nathaniel to keep so cluttered a space while he worked. Indeed, he was known for his discipline even before he served as the keeper of laws and justice for the Vale under his brother's rule. But since James' death, the Eyrie saw a courier nearly every single day, making the treacherous trip up the narrow goat trail, laden with papers.

The candle burned low at his elbow, and a letter written in the pained scrawl of a child sat beneath the prickett.

_Mya,_ Nathaniel knew, glancing at it. The letter called to him, just like Mya's mother had so long ago, but he pushed the thought of it from his head and concentrated on the parchment in his hands. He'd read every single word at least a dozen times, but he read them another just in case.

"Well?" a soft voice behind him asked.

Unable to hold her tongue any longer, Elyssa Arryn stood behind her older brother and tucked a strand of her wavy brown tresses behind her ear. She stared at his back expectantly.

"Master of Laws," Nathaniel answered, setting the parchment down and turning to face his sister of ten and six.

Her doe eyes widened. "A seat on the small council? Nate, that's incredible!"

Nathaniel didn't appear as enthused. His usual frown deepened.

"They don't just want to give me a seat," he reminded her. "They want the Vale's armies. James' armies."

"_Your_ armies, Nate."

He shook his head. "No, we're both wrong. _Theon's_ armies. I serve as regent for our nephew, not one of of those soldiers belongs to me."

Elyssa sighed and moved to the desk, pushing aside some of the papers so that she could hoist herself onto the table and take a seat. She swung her legs as she spoke.

"All the more reason for you to accept this proposition," she said. Elyssa stared dreamily off into space. "Oh, to be able to go south to the capital… See all the people down there, the jugglers, the bards, the fools. Please, Nathaniel, you have to let me come with you! I want to meet all the ladies of court, with their beautiful gowns and their exotic hair styles…"

She began to twist her long brown hair into a braid absentmindedly as she spoke.

Nathaniel's jaw tightened. "Ellie, this isn't some child's fantasy, and at ten and six you are far too old for those besides. There is a _war_ going on. The Baratheons and the Tyrells are amassing their strength at Highgarden. Sooner or later, they're going to march, and that Red Keep you are dreaming of could end up earning its name for something other than the color of its stone. If I join the Lannisters and they lose…"

"What have the Tyrells and Baratheons offered you?" she asked curiously.

Nathaniel scoffed and tossed the letter in his hand onto the table. "Harys couldn't find the Vale on a map," he muttered. "I've heard nothing from either Lord Baelor or the Baratheon. Only this offer from the Lions."

He glanced again at the parchment that sat beneath the candle. Wax was beginning to drip onto the letter and he quickly pulled it out from beneath the prickett and tucked it safely into a drawer.

_Later_, he promised himself.

"I haven't seen Damon in almost a decade now. I have no idea what kind of king he would make."

Elyssa picked up one of the sheets of parchment from the desk and began to fold it carefully as she spoke. "So the Baratheons and the Tyrells offer you nothing, and the Lannisters offer you a small council seat. Theon's soldiers will have to march regardless," she said, "either for their rightful king or for the usurper. Many of them will die, of course."

She turned the paper over in her hands and made deliberate creases here and there as Nathaniel watched her warily.

"If they march for Harys Baratheon and he wins, you will surely have his undying gratitude. Then you will return home and rule from the Eyrie until Theon comes of age, after which you will go back to being the keeper of laws and justice for the Vale. If they march for Damon Lannister and he wins, you will become one of the most powerful men in all of Westeros, keeping justice and law for _seven_ kingdoms, for as long as you live."

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow.

Elyssa set the parchment down on the desk before her older brother and lifted her brown eyes to his. She had folded it into a lion.

**\- AESLYN -**

Aeslyn had one handmaiden back at Sharp Point, a quiet girl her father paid only with food and lodging. Now she arrived at the Red Keep from Casterly Rock with ten. They followed her about dutifully, ready to fulfill any want or need at the moment it arose, eager to impress the Queen of Westeros.

Unfortunately for the girls, Aeslyn's most pressing want was not one they were able to help with.

"Where is the King?" she asked as one of the youngest maidens ran a brush through her long blonde hair.

"I do not know, Your Grace," the girl replied softly. Another handmaiden hurried over holding up a gown for the Queen's approval.

Aeslyn reached out a hand and touched the soft fabric reverently. She had never seen clothing as fine as what she received since arriving at the capital. The dress that the handmaiden held before her now was as blue as a summer sky, with golden flowers embroidered in the bodice and a skirt made from silk so soft that touching it felt like dipping one's fingers into milk.

"This one," she said, and the handmaiden gave a formal nod in reply.

Aeslyn looked about her new lodging in admiration. The royal apartments were vast, with separate chambers for sleeping, bathing, dressing, and receiving visitors. The privy was larger than her bedroom back at Sharp Point, which she had shared with her sister Danae, though the younger Targaryen spent more time in the library than she ever did before her vanity.

"What a foolish girl you are," Aeslyn once told her, when she found her little sister curled up beneath the watchtower with twigs in her hair and dirt on her tattered gown, thumbing through the pages of a book with grubby fingers. "Men don't marry women for their wits, they marry them for their beauty, and no one wants a filthy little thing like you who would sooner climb trees and muck the stables than host ladies for tea."

She remembered the scowl Danae gave her in reply as if it were yesterday. _Look who is smiling now, sister._ Aeslyn sat in her new bedchambers in Maegor's Holdfast on a richly carved bench of oak covered in plush cushions. Myrish rugs decorated the floors, fires burned in the twin hearths, and behind her was a great four poster canopied bed that she had yet to share with the man she married.

"I have not seen the King," the servant said, twisting and braiding Aeslyn's hair into an elaborate updo. "I believe he is with his father, Your Grace."

Aeslyn sighed.

"He's _always_ with his father. Do the two of them not need sleep?"

"I do not know, Your Grace."

The Queen frowned unhappily. She stood so that her servants could dress her and flinched as they yanked the lacing of the gown tightly.

"I wish to find him," she said firmly. She was about to reach down to smooth her skirts but already two handmaidens were doing so, adjusting and smoothing out any wrinkles, pulling the fabric taut.

_I can get used to this,_ Aeslyn thought, but truthfully she already had.

The Queen left the apartments with her small army of servants in tow, and made her way down the corridors of the castle that her ancestors had built. She wasn't sure where she could expect to find her King and husband, but the Tower of the Hand seemed like a good place to start looking.

The guards seemed hesitant to admit her, but the small golden circlet she wore on her forehead made them yield. They swung open the door for her and one of the soldiers in a red cloak escorted her up the winding staircase to the Hand's solar. She heard the sound of low voices but it stopped immediately when she entered the chambers and two familiar faces looked up at her expectantly.

It was the first time she had seen her husband since their wedding night. Aeslyn had woken the following morning to an empty bed and then she learned that he was headed to King's Landing, though no one could tell her why. It wasn't until a week later that she learned of the sack and her new station, and was carted off to the capital to join him as his Queen, escorted by his father.

_And Danae has likely slipped through my fingers by now..._

The two of them were before her now, Damon seated at the desk and Loren behind him, one hand resting on the back of his son's chair. He had been looking over his shoulder and speaking to him as he wrote, but the conversation and Damon's quill both stopped when they noticed the intruder.

"Your Grace, Lord Hand," Aeslyn curtsied and smiled, but the two men simply stared back at her, Loren with his cold and appraising gaze and Damon with confusion. It was the first time she had seen him this closely since arriving at the castle, and already he appeared so different from the man she first met in Casterly Rock. He looked tired and unhappy, but the biggest change of all was the crown upon his head, gold and inlaid with glittering rubies, blood red.

"Lady Aeslyn," he said after a brief pause. "Is there something you need?"

His tone wasn't unkind, but nor was it welcoming and she thought she detected a trace of annoyance in his voice.

"I wished to see you, my lord," she explained, taking a few small steps forward and sweetening her smile. "I've hardly caught more than a glimpse of you since our wedding, and I've missed you. I heard you were injured?"

"I've been very busy…" he said slowly, raising an eyebrow slightly as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Too busy for your wife?" she replied, batting her eyelashes.

Damon stole a glance over his shoulder at his father, but Loren did not avert his stony gaze from the Queen.

"It would seem that way, yes," he replied when he turned back to face her. "Is there something important, or can we speak later?"

"That depends, Your Grace," Aeslyn tilted her head to the side and blinked slowly. "When exactly is later?"

Her husband's face fell into a frown and his next words came out with clear impatience. "Later is any time that isn't now."

She was taken aback by his tone for a moment, but pressed onward. "I had spoken to you about an important matter, before you left. Do you remember, my lord?" Judging by the look of confusion on Damon's face, he did _not_ remember.

"Your Grace." Lord Loren's voice was as flat as the bay of Sharp Point. "Is this a matter that can be set aside for another time?" It was barely phrased as a question, but Aeslyn knew what answer was expected of her.

As gracefully as she could, Aeslyn curtsied and kept her smile in place. "Oh course, Lord Loren. We will speak later then, Your Grace."

She made her dignified exit and walked back down the spiral stone staircase inwardly enraged at being snubbed by the man she had married and his overbearing father.

_What is the point in being married to someone who refuses to make time for you?_ she thought, annoyed.

She felt her stomach growling and realized she had not yet eaten that morning. The Queen decided to return to her apartments for a late breakfast, and left the Tower of the Hand to walk across the middle bailey.

Winter hung over the realm, but the climate in King's Landing was warmer than elsewhere, and the lawn was green though the air was chilly.

She passed the Sept just as someone was departing. She did not recognize the man, though that was unsurprising given that there were few people milling about the Red Keep who were familiar to her. His hair was black and his eyes were even blacker, set in a tanned face. He had a muscular build and a rugged disposition, not unlike the sellswords and hedge knight who were among the more interesting folk that came to buy fish from her father when she was a girl.

Aeslyn smiled warmly as she approached and the man paused. He seemed taken aback by her presence and his eyes widened before he remembered his courtesies and bowed deeply.

"Your Grace," he said at last, "My apologies for staring, I did not expect to see the Queen, and even though I have heard stories of your beauty, to see it in person is truly something else entirely."

She held out a delicate hand for him to kiss and beamed at the compliment. Though it was one she had heard a thousand times before, it wasn't one she had heard recently. Her husband had seemed pleased enough with her on their wedding night, but he hadn't put forth any effort to seek out her company since then, even now that they were both in the same city and indeed the same castle.

Aeslyn lacked the fierce independence of her sister that their father had always been so proud of.

_He was proud of everything that wretched girl did,_ Aeslyn recalled with bitterness. _Proud of every scraped knee and bruise she earned spending all her time riding instead of practicing her embroidery. And what did he show towards me? Disinterest and disdain, though it was _Danae_ who killed his sister-wife._

"Robert Manderly," the stranger introduced himself, "Commander of the Golden Company."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Commander Robert," Aeslyn replied. She looked the man up and down curiously.

_So I was right about the sellsword bit,_ she thought with satisfaction.

"Will you walk with me, Commander?" she asked, extending an arm for him to take.

He looked shocked at the request, and stood open mouthed for a moment before he found his voice.

"With… with _you_, Your Grace? It… It would be an honor I am not worthy of."

Aeslyn smiled warmly. "Then do not think of it as an honor, Commander. Consider it a command."

He grinned at that and linked his arm with hers.

"I couldn't refuse the command of my Queen, Your Grace."

The two began to stroll along the path in the courtyard, the army of handmaidens trailing along at a respectful distance.

"How have you been finding the capital, Your Grace?" Robert asked conversationally. He had never been this close to such a beautiful woman before. He actually felt nervous at their arms' touching, for the first time since his wife passed away nearly a decade ago. Aeslyn seemed to notice, and was pleased by it.

_He understands my worth better than my own husband._

"To be truthful, Commander, it has not been completely to my liking. I've found that no matter how elegant a chamber or how luxurious its bed, nights are still lonely without the company of a man."

Her face twisted into a frown. "I have seen more of the cook than I have of my husband," she continued bitterly. "Why is it that a Queen can't be in the company of her King? That a woman can't spend time with her husband?"

"The King is a busy man," Robert offered with a shrug. "Many people await his attention."

"A Queen should never have to wait," Aeslyn snapped, shooting him a glare.

Manderly was taken aback, but tried to maintain his composure.

"I apologize, Your Grace, I did not mean-"

"No, don't apologize," Aeslyn sighed, the dark look on her face fading as quickly as it had appeared. "You are right, of course. Damon is _busy._ Busy doing whatever his father tells him to. As it so happens, I am busy, as well. Queens have matters to deal with, too."

She looked the man up and down, dragging her gaze across him slowly and deliberately.

"In fact, perhaps you might be able to help with one of these matters."

"Me?" Manderly asked, dumbfounded. "What sort of matter could a man like me possibly help a Queen with, Your Grace?"

Aeslyn brought the corners of her perfect mouth into a coy smile.

"The matter of my lonely bed."

He stopped at that, halting their walk and the herd of handmaidens behind them. Aeslyn unlinked her arm from his and tilted her head to the side, blinking her beautiful violet eyes enticingly. She pulled her pale shoulders back, exaggerating the cleavage that her tightly laced gown created, and took a step closer to him.

Manderly stood slackjawed.

"Your Grace, I… I couldn't possibly…"

"Robert," Aeslyn said, taking his hand in hers and running her thumb across his palm. "For a commander, you seem to have difficulty understanding orders."

There was a brief flicker of hesitation in his eyes, but it vanished at her gentle touch, and a wide smile spread across his face.

"I couldn't refuse the command of my Queen, Your Grace."

**\- DANAE -**

Their final destination with Doniphos was a trade port about halfway along the Demon Road from Volantis to Mantarys. The captain was planning to meet a trade envoy from Mantarys to establish a new deal of commerce between the cities. Since Mantarys had no connection to the sea, Doniphos felt he could offer them a deal in slave trade they could not refuse.

Danae stood aboard the ship with James and Doniphos at her side as she watched the dark waves crash against the hull.

"Mantarys is a city of monsters, my lady," Doniphos offered. "You would do well to head immediately south along the road. Put as much distance as possible between your small group and the city. It has a sinister reputation for torture, horror, and all manner of perversions."

"Then why do you look to trade with them?"

"I am an opportunist, much like yourself." Doniphos smiled a wide, toothy grin as he looked down at Danae. She noticed several of his teeth were golden. "Why do you travel to the ruins of Oros with two waterdancers, an old maester, and a handful of guards? I assume from your silver hair and purple eyes that you're dragonseed. Velaryon? Blackfyre? Dare I even say one of the last Targaryens?"

He chuckled and peered down at her closely. "Are you looking to find a dragon in Oros? You will find nothing but demons in the ash and smoke. Demons waiting to rip you apart and eat your burned bodies."

Danae looked silently out over the water. Her thoughts turned to Persion below deck with Summer. This entire journey was for him. Would the magic of Valyria be strong enough to change his contented, lazy nature? Would he grow large enough to support her weight? Would they make it even one night along the road before they were attacked, and would he do anything in defense other than snore and claw at imaginary enemies in his sleep?

"As I said, I am an opportunist," the captain continued without waiting for her reply. "I take your company aboard my ship in exchange for the volumes of gold your maester offered, and I ask few questions. I will trade with the monsters of Mantarys in exchange for the volumes of gold they offer, and once again I will ask few questions. As long as my pockets are filled with precious metals, it matters little to me what eccentricities or perversions occupy the minds of my business partners."

They reached the port and found the envoy awaiting them. The party was comprised of the strangest men Danae had ever seen, and she pulled her cloak tighter around her, wishing she could hide. The men had hair as black as night that dripped with oil and was styled in outlandish braids, or forked in the shape of grasping talons. Their skin was dark and leathery, and their eyes varied from black, to golden yellow, to a shade of brown that at certain angles looked as red as blood.

They brought with them a vast caravan of goods to tempt the Volantene captain. A grotesquerie of slaves rode behind the traders and Danae stood curiously on her toes to examine the group. She saw dwarves of various ethnicities, a man with twisted and deformed, hairy legs wearing shoes that resembled a goat's hooves.

_Surely those are shoes…_

Her jaw dropped when she spied a two-headed woman riding among the crowd, and she heard Summer chuckle at Danae's surprise.

"Mantarys is home to the grotesque, the deformed, and the monsters," the sultry sellsword explained. "They may still be slaves, but they serve to entertain the masters of Mantarys, and are paraded around to other cities to hold the reputation to the world that their city is one of horror."

Grand Maester Orin departed from the ship with Doniphos to meet the envoy. Words were exchanged in a garbled mixture of Ghiscari and Valyrian that Danae couldn't begin to understand. One of the slaves brought forth several horses and Danae saw that maester reach into his pockets and exchanged gold with the envoy. He turned and nodded to Danae.

She made her way on the shore wedged tightly between Summer and James, both waterdancers' hands clasped onto the hilts of their swords. The maester's guards walked closely behind, carrying the trunk between them. Danae felt the strange eyes of the envoy fall upon them all and she heard the ugly biting tongue of their garbled language as they laughed and jeered. She pulled the hood down even further.

The horses were already saddled with several canteens of water and bags of food strapped onto their sides and the guards fastened the trunk between two of the mounts. Danae shifted quickly to stand in front of the trunk as she spied a snort of black smoke curling from one of the small holes James had carved into the side. Luckily, the envoy had turned their eyes back to Doniphos and Danae pulled herself onto a chestnut rounsey and awaited the Grand Maester's return to them.

"I return to the port in two month's time," Doniphos called to Danae in the Common Tongue. "If you're waiting for me, my silver lady, I will take you back to the free cities. If you're not, then may whatever gods you worship have mercy on you."

With that exchange, the maester mounted his horse and they turned south to follow the Demon Road.

Within only a matter of hours, Danae heard a clawing against the trunk behind her and she turned in the saddle to see the horses begin to panic at the sound. A bright golden flame shot out from the holes in the trunk and both horses reared in fear, throwing James and Summer to the hard, packed earth. The trunk fell between them as it soon erupted in another blast of golden flame. Danae sat atop her horse in shock as she watched Persion pull himself from the charred luggage and spread his wings.

_Does he already sense the magic of Valyria? We're miles and miles away from the ruins._

He took to the air, soaring above the group, then dove down once just inches above Danae's head, blowing her hair about in the wind stirred by his beating wings. Before she could push her tousled blonde tresses from her face, he took to the skies high above them and glided amongst the clouds.

The Demon Road was stone, flat and seamless, wide enough for three carriages to ride abreast, and absolutely straight. Only the Valyrians knew what sort of magic they used to build it. The leaves of the trees nearby were sparse and mostly brown, and every now and then the breeze would blow and a foul smell reached Danae's nose.

They rode for two weeks along the road and as they neared the shattered lands of Valyria, the landscape finally began to change. The dry scrub grass withered and faded into nothing and the earth became barren. Shiny black rock sprouted from the ground here and there as the patches of the sand around them melted to glass in places. It was silent but for the wind, which oft smelled like rotten eggs.

They had not seen water for miles, and they rationed the precious remains in their canteens. The dragon soared overhead, but never ventured down beside them, and occasionally a faint scream could be heard from high in the sky.

At night, Danae's dreams grew vivid and strange. She dreamed of crowds of tattooed slaves running through the streets of an enormous city. She followed the slaves, and they led her to a vast, open arena. In the middle of the arena were two elephants and a tiger, rabid and dangerous, and she watched unable to blink as they killed any man who dared approach them. A pile of dead, broken bodies surrounded the pit while the crazed animals feasted hungrily on human flesh.

She climbed up a tree that was taking root into a crumbling wall, and from there she watched as thousands of slaves encircled the arena. They rushed the animals at once and it was a shower of blood as the elephants and tiger fought back ferociously. Soon the slave numbers reached several thousand and they began to weaken the animals with their enormous surging force.

Men were ripped apart as the fighting continued, and the people took turns stabbing the creatures with their crudely made weapons. Their screams of revolt echoed throughout the arena and the streets of the city as more and more slaves rushed to join the chaos. Suddenly, a dragon's shadow engulfed them all.

She always awoke in a sweat. Her ears began to ring throughout the day from the cries of rebellion and death that visited her in her dreams at night. _My mind is playing tricks on me._

Her body was exhausted from travel. The oppressive heat of the land had caused Danae to abandon her cloak entirely and rip the sleeves from her tunic. Summer wiped her face so often she had torn part of her clothing and wrapped it around her forehead to keep the sweat out of her eyes. They had moved into ashlands the day before, and the grit in the air stung everyone's eyes.

Soon it was no longer silent at night. After the sun set, they heard intermittent calls, strange fierce cries that sounded like nothing Danae had read about in any of her countless books. There were growls too, rumbling noises that sounded more like rocks and earth moving than something that could come from the throat of a creature. Worse than any of these were the screams, high-pitched and full of so much pain no one could sleep after hearing them.

Danae was tossing and turning fitfully on a dirty and travel-worn bedroll. She rolled onto her back to search the dark skies for Persion, and her heart ached as she wondered where he had gone. _Has he left me? _Summer laid down beside her and the light from a crackling fire reflected off her beautiful Valyrian steel longsword, catching Danae's gaze once again.

Suddenly there was a piercing screech, and both girls sat upright in the hard earth. One of the maester's guards was choking, blood spilling from his fingers where they pressed against his throat. He dropped to his knees and braced himself against the ground as blood poured from the gash in his throat and stained the soil red. Summer vaulted to her feet, slender longsword in hand and Danae looked frantically around her to see shapes in the smoke from the campfire, unknowable things half-hidden in the ash.

Immediately James was beside her with his sword in hand. He grabbed her roughly by the arm and pushed her toward the campfire as he joined with Summer and the rest of the guard in forming a small circle around Danae and the flames. Danae looked over her shoulder to see their horses kicking in panic, their bridles tied tightly to the trunk of a withered shrub tree.

She turned back in time to see the Grand Maester pull a sword from the fallen guard and bend his aged knees into a fighting stance. The movements in the haze were swift, shadows flitting here and there. Summer darted forward and slashed at one of the dark shapes. Danae saw the flesh of the creature part freely beneath the Valyrian blade.

Thick black ooze spurted from its wound and splattered across Summer's shoulder and neck. The beast gave a shattering howl of agony and rage, and lunged at the waterdancer, and their group saw it clearly for the first time in the light of their camp fire.

Perhaps it had once been a man, or a dragon, but now it was something of both. It was a little bigger than a human, with scales covering parts of its body and flesh the rest. Danae had time to see that its eyes were molten gold, and then its face split to reveal a mouth full of mismatched and vicious-looking teeth as it released an ear-splitting, unearthly screech. A stunted tail flicked behind it, and claws dug into the ashy ground for balance as it swiped at Summer with a clawed hand.

The black blood spraying from its wounds smelled foul, and Danae saw smoke rising from Summer's shoulder as her flesh twisted and burned from where the creature's blood had splashed her.

"Don't touch the blood!" Summer yelled to the others, scrubbing at her skin with her sleeve while still trying to keep her back to the fire and her front to the creatures.

Danae's heart pounded rapidly in her chest a she crouched in the earth and wished for anything to use as a weapon. Her hands searched the packed soil until she came across a shiny black rock that she clutched in a clenched fist. She looked up to watch James and Grand Maester Orin lunge to fight one of the creatures together. The jerky movements of the strange beasts were too foreign for Danae to tell who had the upper hand.

She turned her attention back to see Summer and the guard named Jon kill one of the creatures as it screamed in pain and fury and fell to the ground. Summer began to search for others in the darkness, but Jon had taken too many injuries and he crumbled onto the soil as fire began to erupt from his wounds. Danae heard Summer cry out as she watched Jon die.

Danae felt a searing pain on her left leg and her body was yanked away from the fire. One of the creatures had grabbed her and was attempting to drag her away into the darkness. She gave a kick in its general direction, and the beast opened its mouth and screamed at her. She kicked again and hit it square on in the face. The heel of her right foot immediately felt as if it had been lit aflame.

Danae threw the black rock in her hand at the beast and it ducked just as the rock neared its head. The creature shook its head to regain composure and lunged after her once more, a hot pain scorching her leg and radiating up her body as it latched onto her ankle.

"Summer!"

Summer spun around from Jon's corpse to see Danae on the ground, a scaly claw wrapped around her ankle. As she began to run towards Danae a loud, high-pitched scream came from the sky and a blast of golden dragonfire scorched the air around them, blinding everyone with its sudden light.

Spots danced across Danae's vision as the dragon dove. He had grown in his absence, his wingspan now stretched out much farther than before and his head the size of a bull. He was magnificent, a creature of snapping jaws and flame.

The demon let go of Danae's ankle and shot to its feet. It grunted to the other creature fighting Grand Maester Orin and James, and they both backed away to look into the sky. Every set of eyes were fixed onto the dragon now.

The dragon flew towards Danae with talons spread and jaws snapping angrily. He placed himself between her and the creature. She looked in wonder as his mouth opened and a loud, piercing roar emerged. His quick gold and white body flew into the air and a large burst of golden fire spilled from his throat. The demon creature snapped back to attention as its left arm was set ablaze.

The fighting resumed as Persion circled in the skies above. A guard ran towards the demon and lunged. The creature dodged swiftly aside and turned to pounce on the man from behind. Its scaled, fiery claws enclosed around the guards neck and a stomach-churning snap reached Danae's ears as the creature lifted the guard's bloody, decapitated head high in the air.

The dragon dove from the skies and landed on the creature's face with his talons piercing into its molten gold irises. The demon's eyes burst like grapes and hot, liquid fire spilled down the creature's body. Persion made another circle in the night's sky and placed himself once more in front of the creature. This time his fire hit it square in the chest as the scales of the creature began to melt and run. A foul, rancid smell emerged as the creature seemed to burn from the inside out.

The dragon circled once more, spreading his golden white flame, and at last the creature fell to the ground as its entire body melted into a black molten pool of fire-blood.

Danae picked herself up and turned to Summer. Her body ached and burned from the creature's touch, yet seeing her dragon in action lit her spirit aflame with courage. He landed lightly next to her feet and nudged her with his large head. The two girls and the dragon turned towards the last remaining creature and saw it lunging wildly in the fight with Orin and James, the remaining guards lying dead around their camp. The only remaining guard, a northern man named Brandon laid dying and shrieking in the sand after taking a faceful of the demon's molten blood.

Danae watched as Summer came up behind Orin. Grand Maester he might be, but there was no denying the strength of his arm. One powerful swing had left one of the creature's inhuman hands twitching on the ground, black blood smoking where drops fell on the soil.

The beast reared back for a strike, and Summer gripped her blade tightly in her off hand. There was no time for anything but an anticipatory wince as she ducked beneath the Grand Maester's arm and thrust her blade through the creature's throat in a death blow. Black blood spilled forth onto her hand, and she wrenched it back with a hiss. She scrambled back to the camp to grab her skin of wine that lay beside her bedroll and upended it over her left hand, pouring the remnants on her shoulder. Summer stifled a scream and rose to look at the carnage around them.

"Lady Danae," Danae heard Summer say while she coughed up ash. "Grand Maester, Rivers, are you all right?"

Danae's ears rang with the hum of battle and her eyes were fixed on the dragon. The magnificent creature flapped his wings and roared as took into the skies and flew in a circle around the campfire. His eyes were a bright flame of battle lust, freedom, and a new wildness.

_This is who I am. This is what we truly are, _she thought to herself. _Fire and Blood._

The words had been printed upon her family's name for centuries, but they had not taken root in her heart until tonight. Her heart was pounding and her body was in pain, but she had never felt so free and wild and powerful.

"Lady Danae?" Summer called. "Lady Danae are you alright? Can you hear me?"

Danae turned to face the three she had started this journey with. Tonight they had been made her army. A dragon's army. "I've never felt better. And you should call me Queen."

**\- JOJEN -**

"A Lion on the Iron Throne," Jojen summarized for his brother.

Edmure lowered the letter onto the desk slowly. Winter's winds howled and swept over the curtain walls of Winterfell, blowing the snow off the parapets and gusting through the stone archways of the first keep.

A blanket of white lay over the castle's towers, the bell one, the maester's, the library, and the broken one. Winter had been mild enough for the southern kingdoms, but in the North it had been a snowy one.

The water from the hot springs that was piped through the walls and chambers heated the solar and Edmure Stark was comfortable in his furs and blackened leather tunic. Jojen could not say the same.

_It is not the snow that makes this castle so cold, _he thought, shivering despite the soft rabbit fur that lined his jerkin. _It is Edmure._

"Where is Symeon?" his brother asked.

"In the library."

"He means to spend his whole damn life in there," Edmure grumbled. He stared down at the letter again and then drew his skinning knife and brought its blade down right in the center of it, pinning the parchment to the table.

"If Damon Lannister thinks the north will bow down before him, then he's as stupid as our youngest brother is blind."

"Symeon isn't _completely_ blind, Edmure. He just… he has difficulty seeing things further than a few feet in front of him is all."

"Still more useful than Ysela, I suppose."

Jojen chewed his lip thoughtfully. _I wonder what he says of_ me _when he speaks to our siblings. _But he knew that Edmure spoke to Symeon and Ysela seldom. _Hells, he barely talks to me._

"We will not side with these Lannisters. What claim do they have to the Baratheon's seat? What right?"

"The right of conquest," Jojen said. "The same one that Robert Baratheon used to start his line over two hundred years ago."

Edmure narrowed his eyes at his younger brother. "What's wrong with you, Jojen? You speak as if you support their cause."

_He knows._

Jojen tried to keep his brother's gaze, but his stomach tightened in a knot when the oldest Stark's dark eyes bore into his, searching him, stripping down his darkest thoughts until they lay naked in the light of day.

_He knows about Thaddius and I._

No, it was impossible. No one knew about that. It was weeks ago, and Jojen hadn't spoken to the Lannister since. Thaddius had gone back to the capital to protect his king and Jojen had returned to the North with his brother.

_Does he think of me?_ Jojen wondered. He thought of Thaddius more often than he would care to admit. Jojen had sampled plenty of women before, but he had never lied with a man until that night, and the taste had left him with a strange hunger that could only be satiated by a certain golden haired young knight.

"Jojen."

His brother's voice shook him from his thoughts.

"No, I do not support their cause."

Edmure regarded him with suspicion. "The Lannisters are a damnably sly and deceitful house. I will not side with them, and you will see me in a septon's robes before you see me kneel before that conceited and prideful bastard Damon."

"You mean to march for Harys, then?"

Lord Stark slammed his fist onto the table. "Harys!?" he repeated, his voice booming in the stillness of the solar. "What has Harys done for the north? He picked a _ward_ for his Hand, and one from his enemy's house. Tell me how he has honored and rewarded House Stark, his most loyal allies? Idiot of a brother! I will _not _march for that man!"

Edmure pushed his chair back and rose, prying the skinning knife from the desk and shoving it angrily back into its sheath at his hip.

"I've had enough of your fool's counsel. I will meet with my lords, now. They've been waiting long enough."

He brushed past Jojen on his way out and the younger Stark followed on his heels. They descended the dimly lit stairwell with its slate gray stones and glowing torches in their sconces in silence.

The Great Hall was as filled as Jojen had ever seen it. Lords from all over the North had come to Winterfell to discuss the war, and even a few ladies as well. Jojen recognized the muscled Dacey Mormont seated beside her brother Jaxon, the Lord of Bear Island. The Karstarks were present, Bradd and Matthos, the Glovers, the Flints, and the Liddles, as well as a thin and aging man with the green and black sigil of house Reed. Lord Forrest Umber was in attendance, a giant of a man taking up a place at the long table where three could have sat.

Their chatter filled the room, along with clinking of tableware, the sloshing of ale, and the howling of the wind against the ancient northern fortress. Some of the noise died down once Edmure entered, but the wind did not. It wailed against the walls of Winterfell and rattled the panes of the windows of the keep, filling Jojen with a sense of dread and foreboding.

"I'll hear your advice," Edmure announced, taking his place at the head of the long row of trestle tables that had been dragged to the center of the hall. "But I don't have to listen to a damned word of it, if I don't see fit to."

The muttering and whispering ceased and some glances were exchanged before the first lord spoke.

"My Lords, we pledged an oath to King Harys. What would the word of Starks and the North mean if we do not plan to keep it?" Bradd Stark said, gazing down the long table at the men present.

"True," he continued, "the Baratheons were usurpers once, just like the Lannisters now. But never forget that the War of the Usurper started with good cause. We cannot pledge fealty to a false king, whom we know to be a thief for nothing more than greed. The North remembers."

A second voice rode over the chatter that had started up again, belong to a man with a pine cone pin of painted silver on his breast. "The Baratheon's have shown us little love and less respect, it is true, but what of our ancient alliance? What of the friendship of our ancestors?"

"You would send your sons to die for the friendship of men centuries dead? You speak of madness." Jojen was almost as surprised to hear his voice as the other lords seemed to be. He felt a rush of anxiety overcome him as all eyes in the room turned towards him. _Why am I nervous? I'm never nervous._ He swallowed. _Because I have something to hide._

"The Lannisters alone have twice our numbers, and ten times our wealth." His voice came out strongly though his heart was thumping in his chest. "We cannot hope to defeat them, not without allies, and the Stag stands alone."

"You forget House Tyrell, my lord."

Jojen shook his head. "The Lions hold Lord Baelor's children hostage, how long do you think the Rose will continue to march for a losing cause when their lineage is on the line?"

Jojen saw Edmure's hands clench into fists, but he forced himself to continue. "I say we march to King's Landing. I say we march to the capital. I say we go to the Red Keep and swear kingdom to the Iron Throne anew, and join the Vale and the Hightowers in putting an end to the line of Harys Baratheon, the King of Feasts, the King who Scorned the North!"

The room erupted into angry muttering.

"Quiet!" bellowed Edmure. "I will hear what Lord Glover has to say_._"

Men shifted on the hard wooden benches and turned their attention towards a heavy set man clad in fur, seated towards the center of the room. His spotted head was nearly bald, just thin wisps of white fuzz remaining.

"I sat in this hall when your father held Winterfell," Lord Glover said, his low hanging jowls nearly covering the mailed fist ornament that clasped his cloth of crimson cape about his shoulders. "Less than half the men here were present when Lord Torrhen called his vassals at the start of the Greyjoy Rebellion, twenty five years ago. I look around these tables and see sons. Sons of the those vassals."

"Let the _Lannisters _handle it, your cowardly fathers all said. Let the _Lions_ crush those riotous barbarians, and so we did. We sat holed up in our castles while King Orys and Lord Tyrius fought and won the war and then the West called us craven for it. Small wonder that Harys hasn't seen fit to name a northman to his small council.

"Well, Lord Edmure is not his father. Tell me, are _you _men your fathers? Do you quake at the sight of a Lion's banner? Do you quiver at the thought of battle against those who mocked us?" He stood and pointed a sausage sized finger down the long table to the man who sat at its head. "Lord Stark does not."

"The younger wolf has the right of it." Lord Wull was shaking his head. "This is madness. We are too few to defeat the Lannisters, our only choice is to join them. I will not lead my men to their deaths for the pride of an old man and the arrogance of a Stark. I'd sooner follow Jojen. He has twice the sight of his older brother, perhaps the old gods saw fit to give him Symeon's eyes as well." He looked to Lord Glover. "Edmure is not his father, you speak it truly. He is more a Bolton than a Stark."

Lord Wull pushed himself to his feet. "I will follow Jojen!"

Edmure leapt to his feet as well, him and half a hundred men, bellowing out their opposition. Fingers were pointed and curses were hurled across the table as the war council in the Great Hall degenerated into chaotic argument. It took the great booming voice of Forrest Umber to silence the unruly crowd.

"ENOUGH!" he trumpeted and the roar died down. "There is a quick enough way to solve this! We have two brothers, two courses of action. Jojen would see us lay to rest past grievances and march with new allies. Lord Edmure will honor the past and refuse to fight for old enemies. Why should any of us decide which course to follow? Why not the old gods? Why not let them decide? Why not a battle before the gods?"

Jojen felt as if his heart stopped in his chest. His eyes met his brother's across the room and Edmure's face broke into a sinister grin.

The younger Stark had no time to voice his objection before the hall filled with noise once again.

The audience shouted in approval.

The lords and ladies spilled out of the wide doors of oak and iron hall and into the cold of the castle yard.

"This is folly!" Jaxon Mormont protested. "You are _brothers!_ Kinslaying, is what this is!"

Edmure was already at the stable and Jojen made it outside soon after, half walking, half being shoved by lords behind him who continued to shout their support of him.

He felt a heavy gloved hand clap him on the shoulder and heard the familiar voice of Lord Wull in his ear. "Your brother is mad with bloodlust," he was saying lowly. "You have to do this, my boy. For Winterfell. For the North."

_For Winterfell. For the North._

Jojen swallowed and then grabbed his horse by the saddle and pulled himself atop the mount. Edmure was already waiting. One black gloved hand gripped the reins and the other clutched his spear.

"I will kill you, brother." He nodded as he said it. "Not in the sight of men, but in the sight of the gods." He spurred his horse and took off at for the Godswood at a gallop, with Jojen riding hard and fast behind him. For a brief moment it was almost as if they were children again, two boys racing towards their favorite playing grounds.

_Two brothers._

The horses' hooves plowed through the inches of snow on the ground and stomped the cold packed earth. Jojen's blood felt as cold as ice and the wind whipped his tangled auburn hair about his face as he rode. The sharp trilling of snow shrikes pierced his ears above the thumping of hooves and he shivered in his furs.

He lost sight of his brother when Edmure made a sharp turn and vanished between tall pine trees whose skinny trunks looked as black as a crow's feather against the whiteness of the snow that sat in drifts atop their roots. Edmure had always been the better rider. Was he the better warrior, too?

_We will soon find out._

The shrieking of his horse surprised Jojen. He'd hardly had time to react before the beast reared and threw him from the saddle, a spear driven through its chest.

Jojen found himself on his back in the freezing snow, staring up at the canopy of stars above him. He rolled quickly onto his side and clambered to his feet, drawing his sword.

Edmure was on foot. _Where did his mount go?_ His spear was dark and wet with blood. It ran down the wooden shaft in thick oozing streams onto his leather gloves.

"Get up!" he ordered his brother. "Fight me, Jojen!"

Jojen struggled to his feet but Edmure was upon him at once, thrusting with his spear for his brother's side, his leg, his throat. Jojen parried the attacks away sloppily at first, still dazed from his fall, but soon his body slipped into the stance it had learned from the Master of Arms, the one who had taught them both.

Edmure was stronger, Edmure was faster, Edmure was better. _I am going to die, _Jojen thought each time the spear point crashed against his own blade. Metal smashing metal shattered the silence of the godswood and Jojen grunted as he fended off a jab at his leg.

When he used his blade to throw the spear point aside he spotted his opening and thrust his sword through his brother's thigh, sending a spray of blood onto the frozen snow.

"Do you yield?!" Jojen demanded, panting as Edmure fell to one knee.

Edmure laughed, throwing his spear to the ground. "Yield? To the likes of _you?_ I'd sooner marry a Frey!" He drew his dagger from its sheath and lunged but Jojen swung his blade and brought the sword down in between Edmure's neck and shoulders.

The red looked almost pretty against the pale snow of the Godswood, a bloody crimson as deep and dark as the haunting eyes of the heart tree that bore into Jojen Stark from across the pond.


	4. Chapter 4

_note: this is the narrative version of an ongoing asoiaf online roleplay. the story has not yet caught up with the events of the roleplay, so beware of spoilers when visiting the site._

**\- THE TITAN'S RIGHT HAND -**

"Unheard of."

"Ridiculous."

"Absurd."

The advisors shook their heads as they made their way down the long, wide hallway of marble that led to the Sealord's solar.

"A Dothraki horselord in the _city_ would be preposterous enough, but to host one in the palace itself? Has Myrios lost his mind?"

Terro Fregar wore a grim expression on his aging face. He was near fifty now but looked double that, with deep wrinkles carving paths in his forehead and heavy bags drooping beneath his hollow eyes, the result of the stress of his duties as a counselor to a man who seemed equal parts brilliant and mad from one day to the next.

_I will look _two_hundred if I live to be sixty,_ he thought bitterly, _so long as Myrios continues to hold Braavos._

When word reached him that the Sealord had invited the Khal to his palace, the chaos and the fretting that ensued had been even greater than usual. Joro was a lean and fearsome man, copper skinned with dark almond eyes and a braid that hung past his waist, bespeckled with bells that jingled softly when he strode.

He looked ridiculous seated at the ornate table in the lavishly decorated solar of the Sealord, and all Terro could think about was how many men he had to have killed to earn those bells. _And what keeps the barbarian from killing Myrios?_ he thought, watching the Sealord chuckle at the other end of the table at the translator's words and puff on his pipe, wearing the gaudy silks that he claimed were perfect copies of the Pentoshi and Myrish products. _And what could a horselord say that amuses him so?_

The Khal was grinning too, a sinister sort of smile on his tanned leathery face and Terro could feel what wisps remained of his black hair whitening at the thought of what kind of jest two mad men could share.

"My Lord." The advisor bent low as he approached, and the two men behind him did the same, trying desperately to hide their worry. There were guards stationed throughout the room, but they were Braavosi, and as such they wore little armor and carried only slender swords.

_Another bit of Myrios' madness. _Terro would wager they spent more time oiling their hair than they did practicing their swordplay and he couldn't begin to imagine why the Sealord would choose to place his valuable life in their hands, though he reckoned it might have something to do with whatever it was he put into that pipe of his.

The Sealord stroked his forked blue beard and looked to his advisors with only mild interest. Myrios was not far in age from Terro, but looked eras younger. The Sealord cared deeply for pleasure and leisure, and his face reflected the results of both. No lines marred his face, no skin drooped with lack of sleep.

"Good Terro," he greeted. He held his pipe clenched between his teeth and leaned back in his chair to smile at the advisor. "I would like to introduce you to my dear friend Khal Joro." He paused as the interpreter translated the words, then again for the horselord's barking laughter and response in guttural Dothraki.

The poor man tasked with navigating the two languages looked hesitant to offer the Braavosi translation, and spoke apologetically when he said, "Khal Joro says that he does not know this man, that he is no friend of his."

The hair on the back of Terro's neck stood on end when he turned to face the dark smile of Joro, but Myrios remained as calm as ever.

"Ah, yes," he replied, "I suppose we have only just met. Nevertheless, I trust we will become friends soon, by the end of our venture no doubt."

Terro swallowed as the interpreted translated, and he knew that behind him the other two advisors were exchanging nervous glances.

"Venture?" he dared to ask, after the horselord laughed once more.

Myrios took another puff of his pipe, sending a curl of smoke towards the high gilded ceilings of the solar. He'd been in the employ of the Sealord for over a decade now, yet the scent still made Terro queasy.

Recently he had been fond of making grandiose statements about how 'The Titan had awoken' and had set to employing even more bravos from off the street. He had even sent delegations to the House of Black and White, demanding that they be trained, and when they had not returned, he had claimed this as victory.

"That's right, venture," Myrios answered. "Khal Joro is a Dothraki warlord of the Great Grass Sea," he explained. "He commands twenty thousand men in his _khalasar_."

Joro nodded his head, the bells in his hair tinkling as he did. He muttered something in Dothraki, and the translator corrected the Sealord gently. "Thirty thousand, my Lord," he said.

Terro did not understand how Myrios drew mirth from such a statement. The Dothraki were not an enemy to be trifled with. The nomadic warriors were renowned for their horsemanship, and no man or knight could outride them or their glittering curved arakhs. Gifts bought peace from them, and kept them from their walls, but now Nestoros had opened the gates and invited a Khal inside.

"I have made Joro an offer," Myrios explained. "And now _we_ have thirty thousand men. Thirty thousand to send where we please, to raid where we please, to sack what we please."

The counselors behind him wrung their hands, but Terro forced himself to appear calm. Appearances mattered, perhaps in Braavos more than anywhere else.

"And what is it we wish to sack?" he asked hesitantly.

"Pentos..." Myrios replied. He puffed on his pipe and stared off into some unseen world as a slow grin spread across his face. "...for a start."

**\- NATHANIEL -**

"Baelish hasn't yet declared." Nathaniel pressed his finger down onto the map where Harrenhal sat. The faint and gray morning light that filtered in through the roof of the canvas tent made it difficult to see the script, but if there were one thing the Arryn knew best it was maps, and he knew where the Mockingbird's castle lay.

Lord Royce nodded grimly. "It's a risk, but there's no way to get to the capital without passing through his lands." He sighed and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. "He would be a fool to engage. Perhaps seeing the might of the Vale swarming the Kingsroad would sway him to the Lion's cause."

Nathaniel wasn't so sure. He rubbed the back of his neck tiredly and wondered for the hundredth time what James would have done in his position. His older brother had always been so confident in his decisions. Nathaniel was, too, but in matters of law and justice, not choices between kingdoms and kings.

He didn't look up from the parchment. "We'll go," he decided. "But I will have the Baelish's lands well scouted ahead of us. With these whispers of Frey troops moving south, I would assume that Emmon has taken certain precautions. Randyll is a slippery man, and I don't want Emmon mistaking us for a disloyal vassal."

"As you wish, my Lord."

Nathaniel sighed. "Please don't call me that, Ronnel. We've known each other far too long for such courtesies."

"As you wish, my- Nathaniel," the Royce lord corrected himself quickly. "When should the men expect to depart?"

"Soon," came the reply. "Before Baelish awakes and decides he loves the Stag."

Sunlight spilled into the tent when the flap opened, and then vanished once again as it fell shut behind Ronnel. Nathaniel straightened when the Royce left and rolled the map up. His back ached from sleeping on the stiff cot, and he rubbed it painfully, feeling twice his age. _I at least hope I don't look it,_ he thought.

The men wasted no time in packing camp. When Nathaniel mounted after breaking his fast, he rode through the lines and rows of tents to see cook fires being hastily stamped out, armor fastened onto knights by eager squires, and unfinished meals shoved into rucksacks and saddlebags for another time.

The banners stood proud between the chaos. Old houses the Vale had, and most had answered his call. The wheel of Waynwood showed the camp of Ser Harry, eldest of the famed Iron Lords of the Oaks, the flaming tower of Grafton above Lord Gerold and his fierce son, even a few rough men of young Lord Ilyn of the Sisters.

Above the bright colors of these noble Houses, winter's chill still hung in the air, but the soft frost that had coated the ground when Nathaniel first emerged from his tent at dawn had given way to a wet dewy blanket and he did not shiver in his cured leather and fur lined boots. In fact, the Arryn lord was almost appreciating the time spent outdoors after weeks confined to his brother's old solar in the Eyrie when the tranquility was cut short by an approaching rider.

Nathaniel recognized Jon Corbray even from afar with his bright surcoat emblazoned with the bells of his House's sigil. He sighed inwardly, anticipating an unpleasant conversation, when the Royce Lord appeared at his side again on horseback.

"Ronnel," he said, relief evident in his tone. "Your timing is provincial. I was beginning to think I'd have to face Jon alone." He nodded in the direction of the rider and saw Ronnel's face fall.

"The blasted fool," the older man muttered. "I wager he's come to tell you how lucky you are that he's answered your call to banners."

Lord Jon wore a pleased smile on his aging face as he approached the pair, but Nathaniel's expression was grim. "Lord Corbray," he said flatly. "Well met."

"Well met indeed, Nathaniel." Jon gripped the reins of his horse in gloved hands and turned the mare so that he could trot along with them, Nathaniel centered between two of the Vale's most powerful men. "Though I suppose that's Lord Arryn now, isn't it?"

"Regent Lord," Nathaniel corrected him. "Lady Lyanna has given birth to a boy."

"James' widow? Your House has my congratulations. I will pray to the gods that her son is healthier than your remaining brother."

Ronnel grumbled at the remark, but Nate set his jaw like stone. "Dake is doing well," he said. "And so is the babe."

"Ah, the crippled falcon and now a new fledgling. Your maester must be very busy. Cadwyn, is it still? It's been so long, I can't remember."

"Cadwyn, aye," replied Nathaniel, ignoring the remark about his brother.

"They say that James was poisoned," Jon said, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "And at the Tournament of Harrenhal, no less. So many lords and ladies were there. However can one find justice for such an atrocity?"

It was difficult for Nate to refrain from grinding his teeth. Jon continued on, tsking and shaking his head. "Such a shame that his boy will grow up fatherless. I hope he will still find everything that he needs to rise to his birthright, as some are calling it."

"The boy's name is Theon, and he'll make a fine Lord one day."

Ronnel nodded his approval, but the Lord Corbray gave a small smile. "And why not you?" he suggested with a shrug of his shoulders. "The babe was not yet born when your brother died. You have as much of a claim to his seat as any infant. Perhaps even _more_ of one."

"A debatable matter," Ronnel answered gruffly, flabbergasted by Jon's suggestion. "And one that could be argued to the end of time with no consensus. Of what significance is it if the babe was yet born? His arrival was mere weeks away, his existence known. Lord Nathaniel is an honorable man, he would not steal his nephew's birthright from him, especially with James so soon departed, Gods rest his soul."

Nathaniel said nothing. He sat atop his mount wearing his usual expression, a deep and worried frown. If Ronnel was content to argue on his behalf then so be it, Nathaniel had neither the energy nor the will to protest.

"An honorable man, yes," Lord Jon nodded, but the smile on his face only widened. "We all know the Arryns' reputation for being stalwart stewards of integrity and morality. 'As High as Honor,'" he quoted, "and so high as to be above the temptations of sin that we mere mortals face, like lust and desire. Isn't that right, Lord Arryn?"

Nathaniel's grip on the reins tightened. "Have you made your point, Lord Corbray?" he asked stiffly. "If so, perhaps you had best return to your men. We are hours from the capital and will be needing to make camp soon."

"My point is that the Vale is yours, Lord Nathaniel," Jon said with a shrug. "You need only reach out and take it." With that, he turned his horse in the other direction and rode off towards the back of the line once more, leaving Nathaniel to brood over his words.

Ronnel shook his head in disbelief. "Preposterous!" he declared when Corbray was out of earshot. "Questioning your honor, implying you would push aside your own nephew to seize a kingdom - Lord Jon need learn restraint, I say. He's fortunate that you _are _a man with high principles. Another might have had his tongue for such insolence."

"Let it go, Ronnel." The reply was quiet, and Ronnel made as if to argue before finally deciding against it. He heaved an unhappy sigh and grumbled in his saddle.

_Let it go,_ Nathaniel thought, but this time the counsel was to himself.

**\- DAMON -**

"Again."

Damon reached for the chalice of wine but before he could grasp the cup Loren lifted it from the table, setting it back down on the desk just out of reach.

_ "__Again."_

The fire burned low in the hearth and Damon dipped the quill into the ink with a begrudging sigh, pushing the imperfect sheet of parchment to the side and choosing a new one. It was his fourth attempt and he was growing weary of his father's seemingly unmeetable standards for handwriting, as well as the shadow he was casting over the desk by standing directly behind him, one hand resting on the back of Damon's chair.

He could almost hear his father's teeth grinding as he wrote 'Griffinlord' at the top of the parchment in exaggeratingly embellished script.

"Should I draw a picture, too, do you think?" Damon asked, sitting back in the chair and pretending to study the parchment as an artist might. "Perhaps a giant bird with a stag in its talons?"

"Is this a game to you?" Loren asked.

"No," Damon replied. "Games are fun and this… this is torture." He set the quill down beside the paper and sighed again. "Why must I write these myself?" he asked, gesturing to the messy desk before him. "Can't a maester do this? Or Ser Stafford, or Lord Aemon or any literate cupbearer, page, or cook?"

"This is a letter to Orys Connington, the new Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, pledging your support against this dead knight's rebellion," Loren reminded him. "This may be the most important letter you ever write, and, if you don't heed my counsel, your last."

He leaned over the desk and sifted through the papers until he found a map. Unrolling it before Damon, Loren pressed a finger against the place that marked the castle of Stonehelm. "They say he has amassed fifteen thousand men at arms. Do you understand how many soldiers that is? Or would you like me to draw you a _picture?_"

"I don't want to go to the Stormlands," Damon protested. "If the Sword of the Morning is alive, I don't wish to meet him on the field of battle, especially without a shield." He nodded at the sling that held his healing left arm. "Maybe if _he_ were the one missing an arm I'd have a chance, but I cannot kill that man."

"You're a King, Damon. Kings do not ride in the van. You will not meet Ser Ulrich on the battlefield because there will be no more of this 'first through the gate' nonsense from you." Loren tapped his finger against the map. "But you _will _go to the Stormlands. A King fights his own battles."

Damon reclaimed his wine and set the chalice down on Highgarden, reaching for the pitcher. "But not from the van, yes I understand you, Father. I'll leave that to the braver men than I. People love a cowardly ruler." He moved to refill his cup but Loren pulled the chalice away again, between Sandstone and Hellholt and onto the Summer Sea.

"_Do_ you understand me?" he asked. "You may have been trained with a sword, Damon, but make no mistake, you are not a soldier. You were born to be a Lord and now you are a King. Your life is not your own, it belongs to the people you rule." He straightened and looked on in disapproval as Damon filled his cup at last. "That was not bravery that sent you first through the Lion's Gate but pride, and pride is the death of many a Lord and King. Did our maester teach you nothing?"

"I can't recall." Damon shrugged. "All his lectures seem to blur together in my memory. Something, something, Tyrius, something, something, Renly. There are so many dead men and battles, how can I be expected to keep track of it all?"

"You're a Lannister," Loren stated flatly.

"Yes, and Gods know how much the smallfolk take to Lannisters." Damon drank and refilled the cup as soon as he set it down. "I will be the most loved king since Aerys the Second."

"It's your wife's duty to love you, not your people's. Their duty is to _obey._"

"My wife? The one you chose for me? That woman is insane." He spoke into the cup as he raised it to his mouth again, his muttering echoing in the chalice.

"You don't have to spend every waking moment with her, you just have to give her a son."

Damon frowned in annoyance as he lowered his cup. "Oh, that's right," he said. "You're the only one who can marry for love, how stupid of me to forget. The great Lord Loren Lannister can choose any woman he likes as his bride, but the rest of us must simply follow his orders."

Loren's mouth tightened. He opened one of the drawers to Damon's right, removing a stack of parchment and placing it on the table in front of his son, the letter and the map now buried.

"Lord Frey has failed to take Harrenhal," he said, pointing at the folded parchment on the top of the stack, and Damon sighed at the change of subject. "Emmon Baelish holds him prisoner and the Riverlands have not yet bent to your rule."

_My rule._ Damon would have laughed if his father's temperament not been so sour, but bringing up his mother had already been too dangerous a provocation and he knew better than to push his luck.

_Not my rule, _his_ rule. _His father had been indignant when Damon suggested that it was his intent to use him as a puppet, but at every meeting, every council, every conversation, Loren was there, leading him by the elbow like a child, directing him to one room or another, showing him some map or parchment or book, pointing, explaining, ordering, asking questions and scrutinizing the answers.

"What would you like me to do?" Damon asked, gazing up at his father, and Loren looked deeply disappointed by the question.

"What do you _think_ you should do?" came his reply.

Damon turned his stare back to the letter. "Demand his release," he suggested carefully.

"Baelish has not bent his knee to you, you may not _demand_ anything of him. You could negotiate his freedom, but until Lord Emmon sees a demonstration of your strength, he has no reason to recognize the legitimacy of your claim." He added pointedly, "Targaryen wife or not."

"I proved my strength when I took King's Landing," Damon argued. "I _sit_ on the Iron Throne, which is horribly uncomfortable, might I add. What more of a demonstration does the Mockingbird want?"

"Taking the capital does not make you a King, Damon, nor does a throne. So long as the Stormlands remain in rebellion, hope is alive for the Baratheon rule. When that hope is dead, the Riverlands and Dorne will bow. You will go to Stonehelm and kill that hope."

He stood straighter and stared down his nose at the son he had crowned. "And don't break anything else while you're over there."

"I'll try my best to please you," Damon muttered. "May I go now?"

"Kings don't ask for permission to leave," Loren said.

"Forgive me, Father. I'm _going_ now." Damon stood and shoved the chair under the desk before departing, taking his cup with him.

When he stepped out of the Hand's solar, he found two men in white cloaks awaiting him and it took him a moment to realize that one of them was his brother. Thaddius' straight sandy hair hung in his eyes, and he pushed the stray strands aside and stood taller as Damon emerged.

"Thaddius, what are you doing here?" the older brother asked in confusion.

"Protecting you?" came the equally perplexed reply. "You're the king, after all, and I'm in the Kingsguard… Its Lord Commander now, in fact."

Damon had forgotten. "Oh. You're not here to speak with Father, then?"

Thaddius sighed. "No, I tried that already." He paused and cleared his throat. "Your crown looks nice, Damon."

"Thank you, brother, would you like it?" Damon started off down the stairs and Thaddius hurried after him, shifting his sword belt and triple checking to make sure that the clasps securing his snowy cloak about his shoulders were fastened correctly.

"No," he answered. His voice echoed in the narrow stairwell.

"Are you certain? You can have it."

Thaddius was quiet for a moment, and the brothers' footsteps echoed in the turret stair. "I'm in love with your wife," he blurted out suddenly, stopping on the steps. The Kingsguard behind him nearly crashed into the younger Lannister.

"You can have her, too," Damon answered.

Thaddius' declaration was an odd one, but it wasn't the strangest to come from his mouth. There had been the time he announced his intent to become a septon when he was ten and two, the time he had declared the Drowned God his own at the age of nine, or the time when at ten and seven he professed a desire to forsake his white cloak for a black one in order to defend the realms of men against the stories he'd heard as a child.

At times, Thaddius' words were as erratic as his behavior, and over the years Damon had learned to mostly ignore his brother's impassioned speeches. This one was met with the same indifference. _He will be over it in a fortnight. _

Thaddius stood still for a long moment, but when the knight behind him slipped past to follow the King, he forced himself to trudge along behind him.

"Aeslyn Targaryen is the most beautiful woman I ever laid eyes on," he called after his brother. "She gave me her favor at the tourney of Harrenhal. I love her, Damon. I would do anything to be with her." His voice was pleading. "Why did you marry her?"

Damon spun around to face his brother. "The same reason that you're Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," he said. "Because Father said so."

_And Loren Lannister's word is law._

Thaddius watched as his brother turned his back on him and continued down the stairwell. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"To the kitchens," Damon replied. "I'm going to find the most expensive bottle of wine in the castle, strip down to my small clothes, and drink it on the Iron Throne."

Thaddius looked aghast. "Damon, you can't-"

"A jape, Thad," Damon declared, turning around once more. His younger brother bit his lip and frowned, and Damon looked at him with a sympathetic grin as he placed a hand on his shoulder. "Gods, you're worse than Father sometimes." He frowned and added, "I was serious about the crown, however."

Thaddius forced his own smile halfheartedly, and when his brother turned to go once more, he followed as dutifully as ever.

**\- THE SWIFTBLADE -**

"It's about damn time," Paxtor muttered, and Baelor shot him a scolding glance.

"Mind your tongue, Tarly," the Tyrell Lord warned in a low voice, craning his neck to see if the King was yet returning from relieving himself in the woods just off the road. "You wouldn't want His Grace to hear your complaints."

Paxtor muttered some more and shifted in his saddle, and Baelor contented himself with brooding atop his own mount. Daeron pretended to notice none of it.  
The knight gripped the reins of his own horse and remained stone faced and solemn, as was his duty. Highgarden had been growing smaller and smaller in the distance behind them as the armies made their way out of the Reach east along the Roseroad, and while part of Daeron was sad to bid his home farewell, another part of him was overjoyed that the Tyrell lord managed to convince the Baratheon King to march.

_If we stayed in Highgarden any longer, Lord Baelor might have sold Harys' head to the lions._

It hadn't been easy. It had taken weeks to convince Harys that vengeance would be a finer dish to taste than any at another feast in Joseph's honor. Daeron had been there for all the arguments and speeches, a wallflower in white armor.

Now he was decor once again, as still as the trees that dotted the hillsides, as silent as the breeze that brought the scent of distant campfires to his nose. _Why couldn't I have gone with Merryweather's men?_ _They're likely halfway to Crakehall by now. _

The few battles fought so far had been small, skirmishes compared to the ones in the Greyjoy Rebellion Daeron grew up hearing his father talk about, but the Oakheart would have liked a chance to see them anyways.

When they made camp that night, Ser Florent went to the King's tent and Daeron was given his respite. He was debating on whether to spend the time sharpening his sword or reading from his worn and weathered copy of the Seven Pointed Star when the black and yellow banners were spotted through the darkness.

Jon Umber was a large man, but as his nickname suggested he was still smaller than most of the men of his house. When Halfjon dismounted his destrier, he was a good two heads taller than the Oakheart, and Daeron had to lift his gaze to meet his white cloaked brother's dark eyes.

They said strange and wild things about the Northern Knight, although half were untrue and the other half understatements. Daeron knew the latter well. Once whilst upon the road, the King had stopped in a village tavern for one of his sessions of refreshments, and whilst inspecting the town square they had come across a weeping woman in the stocks, naked as the day she was born.

Daeron had still been unsure of the huge man then, after all, he was far from Godly. Daeron had of course averted his eyes before any impure thoughts could cross his mind. He had expected the Northerner whose laugh was lusty enough to wake the dead to indulge his baser instincts and gawk at the poor girl.

Instead, the Knight had forced his way onto the platform and covered the girl with the white cloak from his back. He had bellowed for an explanation, and upon hearing the tale that she was a harlot, having been taken advantage of by a traveling Septon, Halfjon demanded her freedom at once.

The town bailiff had other ideas. He and his boys had gone for their staves, as had a few in the crowd. A couple even threw stones at the giant Northerner although it seemed to matter as much as rain on a mountain.

The fight had lasted about half a minute, and ended with the bailiff freeing the girl with blood pulsing from his nose whilst his three cronies moaned on the floor. The Umber for his part walked the girl home to her parents, leaving them with a purse of silver and a promise, that were her honor ever questioned again, the accuser would have to challenge him.

As the two Knights had made their way back to their King, the Northerner laughing amicably, Daeron had known that this giant was a brother in truth. From that day on, he had always looked forward to serving with Ser Jon. The huge man always seemed to have ridden out from some ballad or tale. Far more than even The Sword of the Morning, the Halfjon reminded Daeron of why he had chosen the white cloak.

"Well met, Oakheart." Jon clasped his arm and smiled his easy smile. The Northman's youthful face had grown stubbled since Daeron saw him last, but his grin was always the same. "Have you been keeping yourself entertained in our absence?"

Daeron watched as the rest of the cavalry unit came trotting into camp, torches illuminating grim faces, and tried to count their numbers. _Are they so much lesser than when they left? Perhaps others stayed behind…_

"I've been trying my best," Daeron replied. "But I confess it has been difficult. The feasts were chore enough, but now we're marching, too. Feast, march, feast, march. My legs are tired and I worry that soon my belt will no longer fit."

Jon laughed his booming laugh and gave the knight a good natured pat on the shoulder that nearly knocked Daeron off his feet. "Swiftblade, I do not think it possible for you to gain a stone if you tried. They ought to call you Skinnyblade, instead."

Daeron smiled weakly. "I'm glad you're back, brother. But your company looks decidedly smaller."

The Umber's grin faltered and he nodded. "Aye. Lord Loren Lannister does not fight fair. Will you walk with me? Let me practice breaking the news to a friend before I must face our King."

Daeron fell into step beside him, their pearly white armor glinting in the glow of the campfires they passed. Men were drinking and talking noisily around the flames, trading stories and wineskins, but Jon spoke in a low voice.

"You wouldn't believe the horrors I've seen in the Riverlands. Entire villages put to the torch, scorched holdfasts, flayed lords strung up on trees for the crows. The survivors won't even speak to us. They won't speak to anyone. They walk around as if dead. And those that don't, those that _do_ find their tongues…" He glanced around nervously. "The stories they tell would turn your stomach."

Daeron furrowed his brow. "Stories like what?"

"Torture. Rape. Murder. And not just the soldiers, no, it's the smallfolk mostly that are feeling the lion's claws, and even the women and children are not spared. Loren bought himself some sellswords from the eastern continent. The Bright Banners, they are called. They have committed unspeakable atrocities in the usurper's name."

_Torture, rape… _War was hell, Daeron had heard it enough times from his father that he believed it even without the Umber's words. _There, that's _one _thing that bitter old man taught me._

"Have you any word from Ser Raleigh?"

Jon shook his head. "None since Silverhill. They took the castle and sent a raven to King's Landing, threatening to hang the lord and his sons, but Loren could not even bother with a reply. A man like Lord Lannister isn't moved by threats of hanging, even when it's his own loyal vassals. Besides, he knows a bluff when he sees one. When we left for Bitterbridge, the Serretts were alive and well."

"Seven help us, at least we are on the side with honor." Daeron stared at his feet and sighed, and Jon smiled sympathetically.

"We may not share the same gods, but I share in your gratitude for that," Jon said. "The things I've seen… Loren Lannister's way is not the Northern way. Only a Lion would stoop to such lows in warfare. The North remembers."

Daeron fell silent as they walked through the camp, trying to think of what this news meant. Holding the moral high ground was paramount to the White Knight, but how many men lay dead and buried for their honor? How many kings?

"There's more news," Jon said after a time, glancing away from Daeron, his voice suddenly filled with hesitation. "Your father wishes to support Hightower and the Lion."

The knight stopped in his tracks. _No. It cannot be. _Daeron felt his stomach drop.

"Of course, I would never doubt your loyalty to His Grace," Jon quickly added, halting as well and placing a gloved hand on the shoulder of his brother. "Nor would anyone else. But… with Thaddius turning his cloak for his family… I would not be near His Grace when he hears this news, were I you."

The sympathetic smile was genuine, but it brought no comfort to Daeron. "I thought I'd speak with you first, before going to see the King," Jon explained. "Good luck, friend."

He turned and left, and Daeron stood dumbly between two rows of canvas tents, clutching his tattered copy of the Seven Pointed Star.

**\- AESLYN -**

Ser Daelys was a quiet one, but he kept secrets, and Aeslyn could appreciate a man who knew how to hold his tongue. The knight bore the Valyrian features his house was known for, and kept his white mane long.

He was beautiful, but strangely uncomely. A little too reminiscent of her cousins perhaps. He did have a reputation, which was probably the reason he was serving her. _The Dragonknight Come Again,_ some said, although his eyes lacked the true fiery violet, and his hair the true gold spun silver.

It also perturbed the Queen that he ignored her revealing gowns and actions. Sometimes she wondered whether he had a manhood down there at all.

He was waiting dutifully outside the door when Aeslyn slipped out, smoothing the skirts of her gown and putting her hair back into place.

"Did anyone pass by?" she asked, and his reply was the same as it always was.

"No, Your Grace."

"Good. Take me back to my chambers." She followed the knight in white plate down the long empty corridor, and cringed when she heard the door she had just come through open again before she had rounded the corner. _I told Robert to wait ten minutes, not ten seconds…_ She did not dare turn to glance back, picking up her pace instead until at least she reached the entry to the royal apartments.

Ser Daelys opened the heavy doors for her and closed them behind her, too. She had to admit that manhood or not, he was terribly useful. The Queen went straight to her silvered looking glass, resting upon an oaken table littered with her jewelry in the warm and spacious anteroom, and lifted it to see her reflection. _I look regal,_ she noted, searching her own features carefully, fingering the ruby brooch that hung about her neck. Her white blonde hair was pulled back tightly, braided and piled high atop her head in the southern fashion, and the small glittering tiara that topped it sparkled in the glass.

_I look like a Queen._

The door creaked on its hinges, and she tilted the mirror to catch a glimpse of another crown.

"Your Grace!" Aeslyn set the glass down and whirled around to face him, smiling brilliantly. Her crimson gown carried a train longer than the dress itself, and it dragged across the floor as she hurried to throw her arms around Damon. She held him for a long moment, closing her eyes and nuzzling against his neck, reaching up to pull at a lock of his golden hair.

"It's so good to finally see you, my lord! I've been cooped up in this castle since I've arrived, with no one to talk to but Ser Daelys, and being apart from you is almost unbearable." Aeslyn reached up to stroke his cheek and Damon flinched, a look of apprehension on his face.

"It feels as though it's been ages since we've been alone," she went on, ignoring his hesitation. "They're always dragging you off somewhere, and no one ever tells me what's going on. I've spent every night in this bed by myself since I've arrived. I've missed you, Damon," she said, pulling away at last. Aeslyn turned her gaze upwards to his face and tried to read his blank expression.

_Is he angry with me? Displeased? Why isn't he smiling? He's always smiling..._

"Damon, you haven't said anything yet… You haven't even said hello."

"I'm just surprised to see you, is all." He looked past her, studying the bedroom as if it were the first time he were in it. He made to step around her, but she put herself in his path like a guardsman.

"Surprised?" she said. "Why? Where else would I be but within our chambers, waiting for my king?"

_Does he know? _She searched his green eyes confusedly, her own violet orbs filled with hurt, but he only seemed indifferent. Impatient. Distracted.

"I don't know." He shrugged. "Somewhere else? Doing queenly things?"

Aeslyn's eyes darkened, and her face fell. "Queenly things," she repeated, an icy tinge to her voice. "You think I'm doing a poor job as your Queen, is that it?"

"What? I didn't say-"

"You didn't _have_ to say it, Damon." She spun around, turning her back to him, and folded her arms across her chest. "I understand _exactly_ what you meant. Don't lie to me. You think I'm not being queenly enough. I can see the disappointment in your face, and that other _Velaryon_ man, with the queer eyes, the bastard. He looks at me the same way. Expectant. Like he's waiting for me to _do_ something but he won't tell me_ what._ And your father, he won't even look at me at all."

"That's nothing to take personally, Aeslyn, he doesn't look at me much either-"

She whirled around again and jabbed a finger against his chest, cutting him off. "I _know_ what the duties of a Queen are, but how am I to provide you with an heir if you won't come see me?"

_What they say of men is true,_ she realized, studying his confused expression. _He has no interest in me now that the wedding and the bedding are done with. How dare he! I am living in the den of Lions. Does he want me to wake the Dragon?_

"I've been very busy, in case you've failed to notice, every single day-"

"You're never here!" she interrupted again. "I don't even have a clue where you go half the time! You could be lounging in some brothel all day for all I know!" _Yes, that's it, that's where he is, that's why he doesn't want me, he has his fill from whores! _

"A brothel? Have you taken leave of your senses?" Damon took a small step backwards, trying to put some distance between them. "When do you think I'd find the time for that? Do you think I have the luxury of lounging _anywhere? _My Father-"

"See?!" Aeslyn's expression changed yet again, as a victorious smile spread across her face. "You _would_ be in a brothel, you simply don't have the time for it! You just said so yourself!"

Damon glanced helplessly towards the door, eyes filled with regret. "I said no such thing," he argued. "Stop putting words into my mouth."

"Don't _lie_ to me, Damon. I'm no fool. I knew your reputation before I married you, I knew who you were, what you've done. How many? Hm? How many women have shared your bed?"

If before he had looked helpless, Damon appeared absolutely panicked now. He glanced again at the door and took another step toward it. "Aeslyn, I don't understand what you're asking me, and I don't understand why you're behaving this way. I just wanted to get some sleep-"

"Sleep with _me_, then!" she begged, grasping at his shirt with both hands and pulling him back to her. "I'm your _wife,_ and I'm tired of this lonely bed! Why won't you take me?" she asked, running one hand down his side and reaching up to caress his face with the other. "Like you did on our wedding night?"

_He's so handsome, and I'm beautiful, doesn't he see how perfect we are for each other? _She cut off any reply by pressing her mouth to his, guiding him to the bedroom and the bed they _should _share, were _meant _to share. Damon stumbled somewhat as she forced him backwards onto the blankets, and looked up at her with shock as she climbed on top of him.

"Don't you want me?" she murmured as she straddled him, leaning down and brushing her lips against his. She took his hands in hers and placed them on her hips before guiding them upwards along the curves of her body. "I'm yours," she promised. "Only yours."

She kissed him again, before he could manage a response, and then fumbled for the fastenings of his trousers. "Let me _show_ you my queenly duties," she murmured while covering his neck in a frenzy of kisses. "Let me _show_ you what a Queen is."

_What else would he want of me? _she thought desperately. _He can't expect me to sit with my nose buried in a book concerning the realm's finances as Danae would likely do. _

The thought made her blood run cold and she froze on top of him. She released her grip on his belt and her hands started to tremble before she burst into tears, the memories flowing equally unbidden.

"Aeslyn?" Damon looked up at her in bewilderment. "What's wrong? Did I do something-"

"No, no, you didn't do anything," she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. "It's _her, _it's _Danae! _It's _always_ Danae!"

"Who?"

Her shoulders shook with sobs, and her tears dampened his clothing as she rested her head against his chest and wept.

"He always loved her more," she wailed. "Why? She killed our mother! How could he forgive her? How could he _adore_ her? Everyone liked her best, Father and Alester and Rhaegar, him most of all, the way he lusted after her…"

She lifted her head and her cheeks were red and stained with tears, but her violet eyes were blazing as she looked into his. "I bet _you_ would want her, too. I bet _you_ would think she's more beautiful than I, I bet you would never keep _her_ waiting on you, all alone. You would rush to her bed each night the way our cousin sought to!"

"Aeslyn, I didn't even know you _had_ a sister-"

"I _told_ you about her, Damon! You never listen to me!" She pressed her face against his chest once more, grasping at his shirt with her fists, and sobbed against him. _He is scum, scum, scum. Just like the rest. Playing games with me like some wooden knight. _

"Seven Hells…" she thought she heard him mumble. She cried until there were no tears left, and all the while he lay stiffly beneath her, occasionally stroking her hair. It felt like ages before he finally spoke again.

"Look, if we're not going to…"

"Going to what?" Aeslyn asked, pushing herself up so that she could frown at him, wiping her tear streaked face with the sleeve of her gown.

"Well," Damon shifted uncomfortably beneath her. "It's just that I have a lot of things I could be doing right now. Also, you're sort of sitting on certain...parts. It's rather painful, really, and there's much to do before I go to Stonehelm-"

"Stonehelm?" She glared. "Why would you go to Stonehelm? Your place is _here_, with _me._ What is in Stonehelm?"

Damon looked confused. "I thought you would have heard. Ser Ulrich Dayne and Lord Swann raised an army and garrisoned themselves there on Cape Wrath. I'm taking the fleet around the coast and Connington is coming from the north. If you could just…" His hands were on her waist and for a moment she thought it might have been a gesture of affection, but he was easing her off of him then, gently, and trying to sit up.

She grabbed him by the wrists and roughly yanked his hands from her hips, pinning them over his head and forcing him onto his back once more. Her violet eyes were filled with fury as she leaned down close to his face.

He frowned unhappily. "Aeslyn, I'm really not into this sort of thing-"

"So _Ulrich Dayne_ calls your name, and you go running to him like he's some _whore_ you want to fuck," she snarled. "And what about me? I am the _Queen,_ and I am your _wife._ A king may have a duty to the realm, but a man has a duty to his wife, first. What if I told you that I were with child? That right now your heir grows inside of me, the crown prince, the next king of Westeros? Would that not soften your heart?"

Damon hesitated. "Well," he said slowly, "Then I suppose that would mean I really _don't_ need to remain here, wouldn't it? Your Queenly duties are done with. May I leave now?"

He slipped his hands from hers and this time she was too shocked and appalled by his words to protest as he lifted her off of him delicately. _How could he be so uncaring, so cruel, so indifferent…_

"What is _wrong_ with you?!" she finally cried, gathering her skirts about her as she knelt on the bed. "Look at me!"

Damon had stood and set to work fastening his belt but she grabbed him by the arm and yanked him so that he would face her once more.

"I am the Queen!" she declared, slamming her other fist against the mess of pillows and blankets. "I am the most beautiful Queen that ever was, and you act as though I am invisible!"

She was surprised to hear him laugh. "Me?" he asked. "What's wrong with _you?_ I thought you were a Targaryen, the blood of Dragons." He smiled his lazy smile. "Since when do dragons weep and moan over the opinion of lions?"

_How dare he. How dare he throw my blood in my face like that._

"I am not a Dragon!" she seethed. "I am a Lion, you wrapped the cloak about my shoulders yourself!"

Memories of the wedding day were among Aeslyn's most cherished. He had held her so close, so tenderly. _Did he love me then? Does he now?_

Damon looked perplexed as he pulled himself free of her grip. "It's just a cloak, Aeslyn. A ceremony. The only reason my father had us married in the first place was because of your House, you're not meant to discard it like some soiled rag. Why do you think your family's banners hang beside my own?"

"My father," she repeated, sneering. "My father this, my father that. Is he all you can ever speak of? Do you know who _my_ father was, Damon? A fisherman, poor as dirt, without a shred of dignity. Fleeing from Essos like a scolded dog." She spat the words like venom. "I do not look over my shoulder for my father's cloak, or my father's House. I love _you_, Damon. And I _need _to know that you love me too."

He glanced hesitantly towards the door.

"Aeslyn, now's really not the time-"

"Answer me, Damon!" Her voice broke as she stared up at him, purple eyes welling with tears once more, but he continued to avoid her gaze, searching the room desperately like a cornered animal looking for an escape.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, defeated. "Aeslyn, I don't even _know_ you… How could I possibly love you?"

Damon placed a hand on her shoulder and she pushed it away, rising and wiping tears from her eyes.

"Ser Daelys!" she called shrilly, and the knight came hurrying into the bedchamber. He glanced from Aeslyn, standing near the bed, her face tear stained and red, eyes puffy from crying, her skirts all a tangled mess, to Damon who stood fastening his trousers. The knight frowned as he bowed.

"Your Graces."

"Prepare a litter," she said. "I wish to visit the Royal Sept." She saw the understanding in his eyes as he nodded, her hidden meaning understood. The Sept was where she had first met Robert. Robert, who listened. Robert, who called her beautiful. Robert, who did as he was bidden and never mentioned that she was a Dragon. Ser Daelys always did as he was told, too.

Aeslyn could appreciate a man who knew how to follow orders.

**\- DANAE -**

The party rode long and hard for the many days following the attack. They ate in the saddle and stopped only for short periods of rest during which no one slept soundly, least of all Danae.

Another day was dawning, rays of light filtering dimly through the harsh smoky air. Her chest had began to hurt from the foul wind, and she had wrapped a torn bit of her tunic around her lower face to try to reduce the ash in her lungs.

It did little to help.

She was so weary she was almost swaying on her horse, and the others seemed in no better condition. James looked pale, his dark eyes rimmed with even darker circles. Even Summer looked exhausted, her blonde hair caked with dirt and mud.

An ever-present, low-pitched hum rang in her ears both during the day and in her dreams. It had begun after the fight on the Demon Road, and only grew louder as they traveled closer to the city. No one else had commented on the hum, so she dared not mention it for fear of sounding mad.

Her body felt as though it vibrated with an unseen force. Her head was full and clouded, and her stomach queasy. She slept fitfully at night, and when she was finally able to drift off, her dreams were as vivid as they were violent.

She had dreamt every night since Volantis of rabid tigers and elephants, a lion devouring its enemies, and rays of burning sun beating down on her as she lay bleeding in the boiling desert sand.

But as the group approached Oros, a new dream came to her.

She closed her eyes for sleep, and when she opened them she found herself surrounded by blackness. The only thing present in the dark was that incessant vibration, resonating throughout her body like an unknown energy. A small, golden light in the distance caught her eye and she heard the faint cries of a dragon calling to her. As she approached the light, it grew into a fire and the tongues licked against her body until the flames extinguished and she found herself face to face with a monstrous gold and white dragon.

The beast opened his maw and snapped at her, his teeth tearing at her dress until she was standing naked in the blackness. Golden flames engulfed her body, purging and cleansing her.

Summer would have called the dream a nightmare, but Danae always awoke from the dragon's fire feeling reborn and able to withstand the heat and ash of another day on the Demon Road.

_It is Persion,_ she thought, _strengthening me, keeping me whole, keeping me sane._

As they neared their destination, a strong gust blew in from the sea, warm and smelling of salt, and ahead rose a vast, shattered ruin. Danae frowned as it came into view, bringing her horse to a stop and wiping the sweat from her brow as Summer rode on ahead.

_Is this it? Is this what we have come all this way for?_

Surely Oros had once been a mighty city of the ancient Valyrian Freehold, with massive walls and soaring towers, but what lay before them now was only a shadow of that former glory. Twisted, half-melted spires still rose into the sky, but many of the structures had crumbled in the Doom and the thousands of years since.

The city was a dilapidated ruin.

An ever-present cloud of smoke and fog clung to the air despite the new breeze, and piles of windswept sand clogged the ash-covered streets. The cracked and hard ground felt hot to the touch, while snake-like tendrils of smoke climbed slowly into the air.

Summer looked over her shoulder at the rest of the party, locked eyes with Danae, and gave a sweeping bow from horseback.

"Your Grace," she said. "Welcome to Oros."

Danae opened her mouth to reply, but a fit of coughing overcame her, and she doubled over from the effort. High above, Persion screamed.

The ringing in her ears intensified as her dragon's cries grew louder. Catching her breath, she turned in the saddle to watch him soar overhead, high above the smoke and ash and ruin.

_The magic is strengthening him_, she thought as he called to her loudly. She craned her neck back to watch him fly and her body shook with another fit of coughing. Her mind swam in the haze of smoke, and she felt herself growing weak as her vision blurred. Persion tilted in the sky as the ground rushed up to meet her.

Everything went dark. The ringing ceased.

And she did not dream of dragons.

**\- THE MAESTER -**

The flames rose higher, devouring the tangled rose bushes of the maze and licking the white curtain walls.

_How could this happen?_

Olyvar leaned out the tower window, the links of his metal chain dangling over the dark and empty space.

"Is it bad?" a feeble voice asked behind him. The steward of Highgarden was wringing his hands when the maester turned to face him, a look of distraught on his weathered face.

"See for yourself," Olyvar said, pushing away from the window's ledge and quickly crossing the room to his desk.

"I can't." Robert shook his balding head. "I can't bear it, I cannot. I'm too frightened. Your father, oh, gods, what would your father say?"

_Seven help me,_ Olyvar thought bitterly as he began to rummage through his desk. _Little Mellara is braver than this man by miles. _He pulled forth a stack of letters, a collection of maps, a pile of parchment, and then hurried to the fireplace.

"What will we do?" Robert moaned. "We haven't the men to throw them back, they've all gone east with the King and Lord Baelor, we've no one here! We've no one to save us! The Lannisters will hang every last one of us before-"

"Those aren't _Lannisters_," Olyvar interrupted impatiently, kneeling before the hearth. "Those are Golden Company men outside the gates."

"G- Golden Company?" Robert Meadow's face was already as white as a sheet, but what precious little color was left drained at the mention of the famous sellsword company. "B-But… But how?! Who?"

Olyvar began to feed the papers to the flames in the fireplace, all the while thinking of the ones outside the castle walls. How long would it take for the gates to fall? How long would it take the sellswords to climb the fortifications and turn the winch? Minutes? Hours?

He stood once he had burned the last, and pulled his hood over his head. His robes were rough wool and gray, and trailed behind him as he headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" demanded the Castellan, catching him by the arm as he passed. "You cannot leave me here! I don't know what to do!"

"I'm not leaving you anywhere," Olyvar answered, annoyed. "You're coming with me. We have to get ready."

"Ready for what?" Robert's lower lip quivered.

"The Hightowers," he said.

The pair made their way down the winding stairs of the rookery together, Olyvar leading and Robert following closely on his heels, whimpering and wringing his hands some more.

"Oh mercy, oh mercy," he kept saying, mumbling it over and over again until Olyvar found himself fantasizing about giving the man a good shove down the rest of the steps.

It was closer to minutes than hours, as it turned out. By the time Olyvar and the castellan reached the Great Hall, the gates had been thrown open, the sentinels slaughtered where they stood.

"They climbed the walls," Edric explained nervously when he met them in the vacant throne room, clad head to toe in steel and panting like a dog. "Shall I order the guards to stand down?"

Lord Meadows only blinked. "I… I…"

"Yes," Olyvar answered. "Have the men lay down their arms, we cannot hold off the entire company, and even if we could, there are no Roses to defend here. The castle is empty. There is nothing here to protect but stone walls and ourselves."

_Thank the Seven for that. _He thought of Maude and Mellara with their father, Troy and Benjen, too, and Meredyth safe at Horn Hill with the Tarlys. There were no Tyrells in Highgarden, only him.

The doors to the Great Hall opened with a bang, and the invaders strode over the threshold like conquerors landing on a smoking shore.

"_BURN IT ALL,_" roared the man who led the brutes, all wiry muscle and sharp angles. Wavy dark hair escaped from beneath his half-helm, and a neatly trimmed mustache decorated his upper lip.

"You!" he bellowed, pointing a ringed finger in Robert's direction. "Who holds this castle for Lord Baelor?"

Robert trembled where he stood, and Olyvar half expected the man to soil himself then and there. "I… I do, good ser. To whom do I speak?"

"Ser?" the man repeated, looking to the men at his side and laughing. They did not laugh along, but it did not seem to dampen his joy. "You are speaking to Lord Gylen Hightower, Voice of Oldtown, Lord of the Port, Defender of the Citadel, and Beacon of the South. And you should _bow_ before your conqueror."

The steward dropped to his knees with a whimper as the Golden Company men pushed past him, torches in hand, disappearing down the corridors noisily.

"Please," Robert blubbered. "Take the keep, but leave the torches. Fire is so final."

A mailed fist sent the steward's bloody teeth skittering across the stone floor.

"Burn him," the Hightower Lord said.

A wordless moan escaped Meadow's shattered mouth. One of the soldiers stepped forward, an oilskin in hand, and tipped it over the steward's head. He lowered his torch, and when it caught, the fire engulfed flesh, hair, and clothing with a soft _whoosh._

Robert's scream rose alongside the smoke and the smell of charred skin. Olyvar looked away, his stomach lurching.

"You," Gylen said, turning and seeing him for perhaps the first time. "Maester. I have a wound for you to tend."

It was then that Olyvar noticed the blood oozing from the Hightower's forehead, a slow trickle nearly lost beneath his thick hair. _A laceration. Shallow. Falling debris? _

"I will need my supplies." Olyvar said. The room smelled of acrid cooking flesh and he was finding it difficult to concentrate.

"You two." Gylen nodded to a pair of axemen. "You will accompany us to the maester's chambers." He turned his steely gaze back to Olyvar. "Lead us, or burn like the others."

The hallways were filled with smoke and Olyvar held his arm over his face as they walked, breathing through his sleeve. From the distance came the shrieks and wails of women, but it was Robert's voice he heard over and over again in his head as they climbed the turret stair of the rookery.

"It isn't much further," he said to break the silence.

Gylen only laughed. "You'd need more stairs than these to daunt me."

Inside his chambers, Olyvar found cloth and salves, oils and bandages. He piled what he needed into his arms and brought them to a table as Gylen slowly explored the room. The lord ran his hand along cluttered shelves, narrowing his eyes at the various vials, jars, and silver beakers.

"It will be difficult to treat you if you continue to move about the room," Olyvar remarked. "I have steady hands, but not _that_ steady."

Gylen snorted his disapproval, but came to the table anyway and sat down heavily. The chair groaned beneath the weight of his armor.

Olyvar chose one of the bottles, a small one whose label had all but disintegrated, and shook some of its liquid-like contents onto a rag. Gylen flinched when it touched his forehead and swore.

"What is that?" he demanded. "It stings worse than a hornet bite."

"My apologies, my lord." Olyvar added some more to the cloth and kept at his work despite the Hightower's curses. "There are worse things than stinging. Infection, for one. That would leave you longing for something so gentle. _Firemilk..._" He set the rag down and held up the vial, "will prevent that. Do I have your permission to continue healing you?"

The Lord regarded the maester with a mixture of suspicion and disgust, but Olyvar took his lack of a reply as consent and began to prepare a bandage.

"You've been in this castle long, have you?" Gylen asked.

"I have." Olyvar pressed the bandage against the laceration ungently and let it soak up the blood.

"Maesters don't generally choose where they are sent, do they? The conclave decides for them." The question did not seem a question at all, and Olyvar continued his work silently. The Hightower Lord watched him with sly eyes. "Did it sting when they sent you back to your father's keep?"

Olyvar tensed only a moment, his back turned, before unwinding a long bandage.

"Maesters have no fathers."

Gylen leaned forward in his seat.

"Then you will not have to mourn for Lord Baelor's coming death."

Olyvar let out a shaky breath.

"How curious," Gylen said, reclining once more, "that an heir to a castle and a kingdom would leave it all for some metal links and a chain. And so young, still. Do you ever regret it? Do you look at your younger brother and think of what could have been yours?"

He did not answer.

"No matter. One is dead, and the other will soon follow."

That gave Olyvar pause. Time enough for a sick smile to appear on the Hightower's face.

"Did you know?" Gylen continued, "Your sisters have been captured, your brother's dead, his head removed from his shoulders. Your whole family, on the verge of being completely obliterated. Dead, all of them."

Olyvar looked away, trying not to think of Benjen and Maude, Troy and little Mellara.

"Maesters have no family," he whispered.

**\- JOJEN -**

Jojen pulled his cloak closer around his shoulders as he crossed the castle yard. The wind tried its hardest to tug it away, but the Stark clutched the fur tightly in gloved hands and trudged onwards over the snow covered yard, past the archery targets and the stables, under the stone arches and to the old oak doors of the keep. They said this had been a mild winter.

_Mild for the south, perhaps, but never for the North._

He had just come from meeting with the Mormonts. At least the loyalty of the Bears could be counted on, in spite of everything. Dacey had patted Jojen on the shoulder, nearly toppling him in the process as she offered words of condolences and understanding.

"The North will always stand for the Starks," she had told him, though her eyes were lacking their usual cheer. He was unaccustomed to seeing her without a mug of ale in hand. The Mormonts had always been the loudest of his father's guests when Winterfell filled each year for its feast.

_Father…_ Jojen pushed thoughts of Lord Torren away quickly, and he stripped off his cloak once in the warmth of the castle, shaking off the snow so that it could puddle on the ground just inside the hall.

"Lord Jojen?" Eddard's voice interrupted his thoughts, and the memories of toasty halls, freshly baked bread, bitter northern ale and laughing fur cloaked lords gave way to the reality of the cold and empty antechamber.

_Lord. I am a Lord, now._

He turned to face the old maester, and when he spoke Jojen's voice sounded almost as grim as his father's always had. "What is it, Eddard?"

"Ravens from the south," the stooped man said. "I left the messages on Ed- on your desk, my lord."

"I will read them later."

The maester bowed his head. Jojen's stomach sank at the prospect of a table stacked with parchment. He hadn't yet responded to the letters from yesterday, and now already more were awaiting him. Any news from the south would be ill gotten. The Reach's army was marching. The West's army was marching. The Vale's army was marching. The Riverlands' army was marching. _Dark wings, dark words._

"Eddard," Jojen said slowly, looking at the floor for a long moment before lifting his blue eyes to meet the maester's. "Am I a Stark?"

The Maester smiled, but it was a sad one. "I pulled you from your mother myself, Jojen. Yes, you are a Stark."

"I don't much feel like one," he muttered, abandoning the cloak and plodding off down the hall. The stairwell to his sister's room was narrow and dimly lit, and Jojen ran a hand along the warm stone walls as he ascended, trying to work out what he would say when he found her. Ysela had wept when he told her of Edmure, throwing herself into his arms and letting her tears fall onto his coarse wool tunic.

"You're here to tell me you're leaving, aren't you?" she asked when he pushed open the door to her chamber, looking up from her lap. She was seated on her bed, their mother's cloak wrapped about her shoulders. She was practically drowning in the fur. Jojen let his hand fall away from the curved brass door handle.

"Tomorrow," he told her. "At first light."

Ysela stared back at her hands. "And what about Symeon? Does he know?"

_Symeon._ Jojen hadn't told him. In fact, he hadn't spoken with his brother at all since the Godswood, thought he could not say exactly why. Was it shame that made him avoid the youngest Stark boy? Guilt?

_I have nothing to feel guilty for. Edmure forced my hand. He gave me no choice. The decision was not mine, it was the gods'._

He crossed the bedroom floor, leaving wet bootprints on the gray stone, and took a seat on the bed beside her, trying to think of what he could possibly say. _Should I explain myself? Should I justify what I am doing? _But when he looked at his younger sister, he saw no judgement in her face. No hatred. No apprehension. Not like when he looked at the lords who had come to join their banners with his, Devorn Thenn with his Bronze Shield, looking as though he was carved of ice, the Glovers with the roots of the Wolfswood through their bones. Northerners, through and through.

"Don't go, Jojen." Ysela stared up at her brother with pleading eyes.

"You have nothing to fear, little wolf." He pushed a strand of copper colored hair from Ysela's forehead and smiled faintly. I will be back before you can even miss me."

She chewed her lip doubtfully. "Do you promise?"

"I promise."

Jojen hated himself as soon as he said it, but the words seemed to reassure her. Nevertheless, when he left her chambers and took the dark winding stairway back to the main keep, his heart felt heavy.

_What if Thaddius doesn't even remember me... What if he doesn't want to remember?_

He was halfway down the turret stair when he found himself stopping, pausing before a foggy pane.

Through the narrow window he could glimpse the rolling snowy hills outside the castle walls, dotted with campfires and canvas tents, banners of green, yellow, and red hanging limp in the breezeless evening. The sun would dip behind the horizon soon, and the banners would all become black.

_Is Ysela right? Is this my last sunset in this castle_?

He watched the fiery red sun sink behind the forest, making the naked trees look as though they were ablaze.

**\- ULRICH- **

The storm had followed the Griffin's host throughout their march to Stonehelm. Day and night the thunder and lightning rolled overhead, yet the rain was strangely absent. Down the Griffin's Neck they marched, and through the hills and valleys of Crow's Nest. They camped in the mountains for a night, and they camped in the Rainwood when they could, but for every hour of rest they had three along the road to Stonehelm.

The scouts tracked their movements diligently, and when the army crossed the ridge into the valley with warhorns sounding their arrival, the drumming of the soldiers' march echoing against the mountains, the great stone castle stood, stoic and undisturbed.

As did Ser Ulrich Dayne.

He gazed out at the mass of troops assembling their camp in the distance from atop the battlements, white cloak billowing out behind him on the salty breeze.

"Looks like Connington has arrived," he observed aloud.

Lord Byron Swann nodded grimly. "Caron, too. I had hoped those rumors to be false." He could not pull his sight away from the yellow banners, their black nightingales twisting in the wind.

"They do not outnumber us," Ulrich said hopefully. "We have fifteen thousand in these walls, and your fortress makes each of those men worth at least three of theirs below."

"Aye, fifteen thousand green boys and peasants. A pitchfork is a poor weapon, castle or not."

"King Harys-"

"-is not coming," Lord Byron finished. "Don't give me your King's excuses. I'm an old man, Ulrich. I may not know how to play this game, but I've known its players for a long time. I've known Harys and his brothers as boys, Renly and Loren and Connington as young men. I've known _you_ since you were a child, barely strong enough to lift a sword."

Ulrich had to admit that. Harys was far from the commander that Ulrich was himself. _I hope he can take back King's Landing without my help,_ the Knight thought, letting Byron's talk pass through his mind. _It will be difficult, but the rest of the Kingsguard are almost a match for me._

"Though I may be old now, I'm no fool." The Lord of Stonehelm turned to the knight. "This will be my last battle." He clasped Ulrich at the shoulder. "It will be as good as any to die at your side."

Ulrich said nothing. He knew well his mentor's great regard for him. The Knight knew that from the Salt Shore to the Wall, people talked of Lord Byron as being the man who taught the Sword of the Morning.

The air felt heavy and damp and he was beginning to sweat in his armor despite the breeze. The sound of hurried footsteps on the stone walkway made Ulrich turn.

Martyn's expression was grave. _This is his first taste of war, _Ulrich thought,_ At least he has the sense to treat it with sobriety. He should have spent more time in the yard, I could still knock him on his arse without breaking sweat. _

"Sails," his younger brother reported. "With the Lannister banner flying at the masts."

Lord Byron glanced uneasily to Ulrich.

"How many?" he asked.

Martyn's frown only deepened, and Ulrich answered the question for him.

"Enough."

He pushed away from the castle wall and began marching down the ramparts, leaving Lord Byron behind to contemplate his fate and Martyn chasing after him.

"The usurper wishes to parlay," he told Ulrich.

"Damon has always been fond of talk," the knight muttered. "His tongue has saved his skin as many times as it has gotten him into trouble." He thought back on their conversation in the throne room, the last time they had spoken. _I should have cut it from his throat then and there. It will be hard to resist correcting that if he wants to talk._

"You cannot seriously think to meet with him." Martyn looked worried. "Lannisters have no honor, brother, who knows what sort of trickery the usurper has planned."

Ulrich did not respond. He kept his gaze trained ahead, on the ocean that stretched out in the distance beyond the castle, dotted with warships. Gulls cried above his head.

"If you insist on meeting with him, at least take me with you," the younger Dayne pleaded.

"No, Martyn. You have a Princess who needs you alive."

Ulrich hadn't even had time to think on the news his brother had given him when he arrived at Stonehelm a week ago. He and Sarella, betrothed. _And what did you expect, Ulrich? _he asked himself. _You wear a white cloak. You will hold no lands and take no wife and in a day's time you will likely hold no pulse nor take sweet breath._

"If I cared about living, brother, I wouldn't have left Sunspear." Martyn stopped and grabbed Ulrich by the arm. "I'm here, Ulrich. Let me _help_ you."

Ulrich pulled away. As he made his way back to the castle alone, his thoughts were only of Sarella.

He assembled a small guard, Swann men mostly, choosing the older ones and soldiers with complete armor, something not every man in their host could boast. A boy held the rainbow banner of peace, and Lord Byron joined the party as they made their way to the beach, the longships of the Lannisters being dragged ashore before them.

"I did not know lions could swim," muttered Byron.

Ulrich spotted the usurper easily. Apart from the armor and the crown upon his head, Damon looked much the same as Ulrich remembered him from the feast, handsome and golden, smiling in that particular way of his. Ulrich could never tell if it were a mocking grin or a genuine one. Damon stepped from the boat into the surf with the gracefulness of born sailor, the waves rushing over his boots.

"His mother was a Greyjoy," Ulrich muttered, not breaking his gaze. "Though I fear he is twice as slippery as the squid on her sigil." As the would-be King approached, Ulrich called out his greeting. "Lord Lannister! You've risen up in the world since last we spoke."

"Indeed I have, Ser Dayne!" Damon removed his crown for a moment to run a hand through a head of tousled curls, the same color as the sand of the beach they stood upon. He returned it to his brow as he approached the knight. "You know, people have started putting a 'king' before my name as of late. It's very puzzling."

He looked up at the battlements of Stonehelm looming behind the Dayne, then at the men in the parlay party that stood at his back.

"Almost as puzzling as a dead man starting a rebellion."

Ulrich allowed himself a chuckle and strode forward to meet the man. _Lannisters... Blonde of hair, sharp of wit._

"Death didn't suit me," he said, "and so I lived instead. Now the two of us cross paths once more, you a king, and me a dead man." He nodded at Damon's shield arm, hanging limply at his side. "Did Joseph do that to you?" _And did you think you could hide it from me?_

"I wish we were meeting under different circumstances, Ser Ulrich," Damon replied, ignoring the question. "But we are here to discuss war."

Ulrich smirked, though his eyes remained sad. _I could kill this false King before he even drew his sword._

Damon turned and gestured to the fleet of longships in the harbor, near half a hundred war galleys, groaning and rocking in the gentle current of the Dornish sea.

"Lannister soldiers, and some from the Velaryon's companies," he explained. "I believe you have already met many of these men. Tell me, do you have a tower to leap from this time, as well?"

Ulrich's fingers itched, aching to reach for the pommel of the sword that should have been Dawn at his hip, but to do so during a parlay would be considered a grave affront and so he stilled his hand.

"War? I had hoped we could avoid it, truth be told. Many of my soldiers are just green boys and elderly men. The boys hope for glory with my name attached to theirs and the men hope for one last victory before they pass."

"There is no glory in slaughtering boys and I would not do it gladly," Damon conceded. "You say you wish to avoid war but tell me, Ulrich, why call your banners? Why are you garrisoned in this castle by the sea? Your name carries weight, and with that responsibility. If you lead this rag tag army of your worshippers into the Lion's maw, their blood will stain _your _hands. Why would you do it?"

"Because I am a man who keeps his vows, Damon. Your brother ought to take heed. I march these peasants not because I want to, not to spite their lords or to plunder the seven kingdoms, no. I march in honor of promises made and vows kept. I march, friend, because my King demands it. Because my King _needs_ it."

Damon offered a half smile.

"Ulrich, you march towards madness. Words," he said, shaking his head. "Words are wind. Promises and vows are empty breaths. If a fish swore a vow to live on land, he would still die the moment he attempted to crawl ashore. I understand that your own survival means little to you - after all, you're already dead. But the men behind you?" he nodded at the castle, "They have sworn no vows to your king. Why should those fish have to die gasping for breath in the sand when they could live out their lives happily in good health?"

Ulrich stared down at his feet.

"Because you are not my king, Damon. I called for help because I cannot stand alone, and they answered. They will die heroes' deaths beside me, and songs will still be sung of them when your name is gone from the earth."

He stood straighter and squared his shoulders, looking up at the usurper with determination.

"Surrender, Damon, and I promise you your men will be free to go back to Bloodstone. You'll be treated as an honored guest, and we'll ride back to King's Landing together. You'll send your bannermen home and let Harys take back his rightful place. You won't be harmed. I give you my word. Don't let this day end in bloodshed, or I shall look for you on the field."

_And you won't want that._

Damon turned to look over his shoulder at the harbor, crowded with ships bearing his house's sigil, then back to Stonehelm, its palisades lined with Ulrich's somber, haggard army. Ulrich could tell that uncertainty had entered the Lion's head. The prospect of facing the honorable, called by the very Sword of the Morning himself, was bringing doubt to the usurper's mind.

"Surrender?" Damon repeated, petty bravado clear to the Knight. "Ser Dayne, you are most generous. But no, I do not think that I will be sailing back to King's Landing just yet. Not without you onboard. Do not misunderstand me, I am certain that you would be a most gracious host at Bloodstone. But I am not _interested_ in giving the Iron Throne to the Stag."

His sarcasm was not lost on Ulrich, nor the men behind him. _Do they know as well as Damon the way this battle will end?_

"Here are my terms, then," the Lannister said. "You are to turn around and send these white beards and children home. You, along with the Lords and Houses who have sworn themselves to your blade, will sail to King's Landing as prisoners of war, traitors seized before a doomed rebellion."

"You will be given the chance to bend your knee before me and my Dragon Queen, as the realm looks on, and swear your allegiance to the Iron Throne once more. Do you wish for me to state your alternative? Or is the sight of it behind me promise enough?"

"No, I think we've both made our stances quite clear. It seems I shall see you on the field of battle."

Ulrich turned to go, but something came to his mind suddenly and he frowned before turning back to the Lion who would be king.

"I'll miss your wit and your japes, Damon. But answer me this. I can't help but ponder...are you proud of yourself? Do you sleep comfortably at night, knowing that your ascension to the throne was built on a web of lies and knives in the dark? A stairway of dishonor and broken promises?"

Damon laughed. "That is a foolish question, Ulrich," he replied. "I do not sleep at night."

Ulrich gave a sad smile, and turned away to head back to the castle. His white cloak billowed upon the sea breeze like a lonely banner.

**\- JAMES -**

James sat beside his Queen in the hot, cracked sand, stroking the hair from her face as he kept watch for any dangers. Persion circled restlessly overhead as the sun made its way across the smoke-covered skies, mirroring the worry in James' heart.

The others had ventured into the ruins hours past. Summer, the remaining guards, and the Grand Maester. James clenched his teeth as he thought of the man's departing words. _The dragon is why we are here, _he had said, and James had wished to kill him for it.

The baked earth stretched on seemingly endlessly. When a foul breeze whipped the ash off the ground, it stank and burned in his eyes. This land was dead in a thousand ways, truly lost to mankind.

The young Queen felt so delicate in his arms, like some fragile animal. She seemed almost weightless, a toy princess here only in some child's play. It was strange to think that this was where her blood came from, the very air seemed to be at odds with her.

James was busy staring at the dragon - and not the one he held - when Danae stirred in his arms, awakening and beginning another fit of coughing. He helped her into a sitting position, but soon she was swatting his hands away, dropping to all fours and vomiting onto the dusty road.

He fumbled for his canteen, pulling it from his belt and offering it to her when she finished. Her body was drenched in sweat and when he placed a hand on her back, her skin was hot to the touch.

"His shadow grows larger every day," Danae remarked once she drank and sat up painfully, her face turning up to the sky and her violet eyes scanning the clouds for her dragon. "I will not allow this place to kill me."

"Neither will I," James replied.

She pressed a filthy palm to her forehead, wincing. Blood was slowly beginning to seep through the bandages on her arm and her face was growing pale.

"You should rest, Your Grace."

She closed her eyes and he helped ease her onto her back onto the hot packed dirt, taking his place at her side again, alternating his gaze between the dragon in the skies and the one in his arms.

The others returned some time later, Summer striding ahead and the Grand Maester ambling behind her.

"It is of little value, I think. The ruins have no true meaning," James heard him saying. He watched Orin slip an obsidian stone deep inside one of the many pockets of his cloak.

Summer was swinging a dead lizard by the tail and gave James a coy smile when she caught sight of him. James returned the grin with confusion until he noticed that he had been holding Danae's hand in his. He dropped it quickly, his cheeks burning, but Summer made no mention of it as she set to work building a fire.

"We'll look again tomorrow," Grand Maester Orin said, "and the day after that."

James watched him make camp through narrowed eyes. _She may not have that long._

The scent of cooked meat drifted to his nostrils and his mouth watered at the thought of a hot meal as he watched Summer pull the small animal off her crudely fashioned spit.

He wasn't the only one who was hungry. The dragon's scream erupted from the sky and Summer dropped the lizard and scrambled away as Persion dove and claimed the prize for his own. Golden flame spilled forth from his jaws onto the already charred remains of Summer's catch as it lay abandoned in the hard, scorched earth of Oros.

Dragonfire hit the magical ruin of Old Valyria for the first time in centuries.

Ash, smoke, and fire filled the sky. The ground shook, and cracks began to split the earth, erupting from the rock and ash. Summer made a mad dash for the horses and James grabbed Danae by the arm, pulling her to her feet and hoisting her onto her horse as fast as he could.

She swayed in the saddle, fumbling weakly for the reins.

"James, go!" Summer was shouting, and Orin too was yelling, though James could not make out the maester's cries. He swung himself onto the saddle behind Danae and slid an arm around her waist, clutching her tightly to him as he spurred the horse.

Persion was screaming his rage in smoke and dragonfire above them, and as the earth fell away around them, James did the only thing he could think of.

He rode.

**\- SARELLA -**

Sunspear was a warren of narrow alleys, packed with mud faced homes and hovels, bazaars filled with Dornish spices, and markets where one could taste dragon peppers roasted and seasoned with drops of snake venom.

Sarella knew little of it, in truth. The Winding Walls wrapped her palace in a defensive curtain, shielding it from the shadow city at its feet. She could see only the domed tops of the buildings from her place on her balcony, and the flat square roofs where colorful awnings and brightly patterned banners hung.

"I want to go down there," she said, leaning over the ledge and sighing. "I want to see all the traders and charmers and fishermen. I want to see the washerwomen, and the pillow houses, and the markets."

Ellaria smiled behind her. "My Princess, your place is in the palace. Your father would tell you that, were he here."

"If she wants to go, let her go." Anders shrugged. It was hard to tell whether he genuinely felt that way or if he were just disagreeing for the sake of arguing with Ellaria, but Sarella hoped it was the former. The two advisors were each holding letters, and she knew that they were eagerly anticipating whose would be chosen first.

"This news from the Maester," Sarella said, turning around at last and changing the subject before a spat could begin. Anders stepped up eagerly after shooting Ellaria a smug look.

"He begs passage to Sunspear," the advisor announced, passing the Princess his parchment. The paper was stained and travel worn, brought in on a trade ship from Volantis carrying ledgers filled with information on the exchange of Dornish wine and goods in Essos. The wax sigil was cracked and faded.

"We should refuse him," Ellaria said.

"We should welcome him," replied Anders. "What he says of the new Queen is true. She is madder than Prince Aerion of old. Our own whispers from the Red Keep have told us as such. Some claim that the Lannisters keep her fettered in the dungeons, so that no one can hear her wailing and rambling, or see the foam fly from her tongue. Others say that it is she who keeps the King in chains, and that she hosts sordid parties in the night where blood sacrifices are made in order for her to maintain her beauty."

Ellaria rolled her eyes. "Utter nonsense."

"All rumors have some semblance of truth within," Anders shot back. "Irons aside, it does seem plausible that Queen Aeslyn has a touch of madness. It is in her blood, after all."

"And who is to say it isn't in her sister's?" Ellaria shook her head. "This girl, Danae, she is ten and six, a child, with no army, no holdfast, nothing to her name."

"She has a dragon."

Sarella read over the words of the letter as her advisors argued. "_Only the Dragon can return Westeros to the prosperity it knew when they ruled for three centuries," _it said,_ "See her for yourself and decide if you wish to reinstate the ancient alliance between your houses. Decide if Dorne will support the restoration of the one true dynasty."_

"You are being a rash fool, Sand," Ellaria was saying, her lovely face marred by a deep scowl. "We cannot bring down a Queen, we can barely keep the Yronwoods in line. Think of the mess this could cause if botched. What of our own problems?"

"A pomegranate shortage?" Anders scoffed. "What a crippling conundrum indeed. We had best sit on our hands until the orchards are sorted out, while every other kingdom moves its pieces. Then when the table is reset there will be no place for Dorne and-"

"Enough," Sarella interrupted. The Dornishman closed his mouth and both advisors turned to their Princess once more. "Let her come," she said. "I want to meet this Dragon."

**\- THE SELLSWORD -**

Starling Waters awoke with, as usual, a headache. Light filtered into the room from a high window, the feeling like nails in her eyes. She groaned as it hit her face and went to block out the sun's rays when the budding sellsword realised, with a start, that she couldn't feel her arm.

O_h Gods,_ she thought, not wanting to look, _I can't_ _have lost it. _

The girl did have foggy memories of a fight. Also something to do with the color red, and maybe a tree? With great trepidation, she forced herself to open her eyes.

"Oh!" she said out loud, realization dawning as the wine drowned memories came rushing back.

Lying over her arm was a young highborn lad.

_Dagon? Damon? Davos? _she thought, noticing that he was considerably less attractive in the light of day.

He had been sweet, though, and while a beginner to the carnal pleasures, he had been good at taking directions. Starling remembered with some relish that she had stolen the poor boy's maidenhead. Well, so to speak anyway.

The sellsword forced herself up, putting the shattered night back to together in her head. Tavern on the Kingsroad, near the Vale, going north. _Was there a fight? Some boy bad at it? Lots of gold?_

Oh yes, that was it. Stupid boy, money, drinking. Oh and a free bed, what else could a girl want?

Starling untangled herself from lordling and rolled out of bed. She almost tumbled as a figure appeared in front of her. Reflex sent her hand to her sword, before she remembered that she was naked. She brought her fists up. No one would ever say that Starling Waters didn't go down fighting.

The figure did the same. Also, the figure had light brown hair, blue eyes and a pair of breasts that in Starling's very humble opinion would have made the Dragonknight give up his vows.

It was a Myrish glass.

Starling sighed and sat herself before it, inspecting the damage. Only a few bruises it seemed, oh, and a nick on her hand. She spotted a basin of water nearby with a cloth, and the sellsword resigned herself to the task of hygiene.

Her body set up goosebumps where the water touched, but she pressed on. More likely than not she would have a full day ahead, and Winterfell was quite some way away.

Once she was finished, she went searching for her clothes. Most were in a pile, next to her bag, but her smallclothes had somehow ended up at the foot of the bed. Starling pulled them on, and was binding her chest when the lordling began to stir.

The boy opened his eyes, frowning as she pulled on her undershirt.

"Morning, beloved," she chimed cheerfully. "Looks as though I have to go, but this was fun and don't worry, it happens to lots of men."

He looked puzzled. It really wasn't a comely look on his face.

Presently, a loud banging on the door almost caused the sellsword's cheerful expression to fade.

"Davos!" someone shouted from the other side of the door, with no regard for any possibly hungover and distressed sellswords inside. "I know you're in there with that harlot! Get out here now!"

This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all. Starling bundled up her clothes and began searching for an escape. The boy pointed weakly towards the balcony.

"Thank you kindly," Starling said, turning and rushing outside. The yard was sunny, although fortunately empty except for a groom beginning to saddle a horse. Four similar balconies lay out to her right.

_Well, _thought Starling, _this will have to do._

She climbed the short wall and, readying herself, she leapt, landing with a couple of skinned knees and a roll. Shouts from behind her indicated that her "beloved's" door hadn't lasted.

Quickly, she pulled on her britches, and readied herself to jump to the next balcony. This landing was less rough, but her clothes fell from her arms when she hit the stone floor. She gathered them up, pulling on her boots and running inside the room - a decision she quickly reversed when a bulky servant burst in, followed by an irate Lord in his nightgown.

Panicking, she dashed to the ledge once more and threw herself to the last balcony, then slipped into her jerkin, forcing the last of her clothes into her bag.

S_hit, shit, shit, shit,_ she thought, realizing she had run out of balconies.

Starling inspected the yard with some haste. She noticed with glee, a haystack.

_Perfect,_ she thought, climbing the last side.

She missed the haystack with a clump, landing incorrectly, although fortunately, in a laundry cart borne by two servant women. The younger of the pair screamed, fleeing, and the older decided to take this interloper down with her washingboard.

Starling threw herself from the stinking fabric, ducking a swing from the board. She tripped the lady, slamming her face first into the muddy yard.

She espied a horse, being made ready.

Actually, now that she thought of it, there were a lot of horses everywhere, on banners, servants. Everywhere, really.

A groom boy was fixing the saddle as Starling came up behind him. She kneed him in the groin, leaving the lad rolling in the mud.

With as much grace as one can have when hungover and with quite a number of laundry items attached, the sellsword rose into the saddle, kicking the horse.

It was considerably faster than she had expected.

Starling sped from the servant's entrance faster than a crossbow bolt, trying with all her might to hold onto her lunch. Soon Meadowhall Castle, with all its irate Lords and chaste squires, was far behind her.

As Starling came onto the Kingsroad once again, she was beginning to feel much, much better. Her mood was only improved when she found the Deddings boy's purse in her bag.

_No wonder I took him to bed despite the stoat-ness,_ she thought. _Looks like time for breakfast._

**\- DAMON - **

The docks of King's Landing were a chaotic whirlwind of commerce. Gulls circled overhead, crying and picking through the rubbish in the water and on the docks, the bells of buoys clanged, and wooden ships creaked and groaned in the murky water. The smell of the day's catch mingled with raw sewage from the city, the stale salty air, and the sweat of fishermen, whores, beggars and sellswords.

_Home,_ Damon thought with disappointment as he disembarked alongside Robert Manderly. _This is home, now._

"Take the younger Dayne to the dungeons," he said in a hushed voice, placing a hand on Robert's elbow as they descended the gangplank, "but not Ulrich. We cannot have him crossing paths with Lord Varyo."

Manderly nodded his understanding. "Where am I to put him?" he asked.

"I'm sure you can find a place." Damon wasn't interested in where the knight ended up, nor was he particularly interested in the man's fate. He was looking forward to seeing his father more than anything, and Loren's reaction when he brought him word of his victory in the Stormlands.

_Two_ _Daynes, I bring him,_ he thought with satisfaction, remembering how small Ulrich looked from atop the battlements when the Kingsguard came riding across the bloody field to answer the cry of his brother's war horn. The look on Ulrich's face when he saw that it was Damon who blew it was one the Lannister would remember always. It was a look of defeat.

He felt like a conqueror riding atop a white steed through the city with his company, a cloak of crimson silk hanging from his shoulders, a crown across his brow, prisoners in tow. He felt like a king.

The moment was short lived. As soon as he passed through the gates of the Red Keep, Damon was met with a grim faced relative. Ser Stafford Lannister was a small man, slender and as of yet unstooped despite his age. His yellow hair was thin and streaked with white, and his face as saturnine and unsmiling as it had been at Casterly Rock when he sat Lord Loren's council table.

"The Lord Hand awaits you," he informed Damon before the returning King even had a chance to dismount.

"And the Queen as well." The second voice seemed to surprise even the advisor, who turned to find its speaker.

"Beg pardon, Your Grace." Ser Daelys bowed, white cape hanging about his broad shoulders, and glanced hesitantly at Ser Stafford before continuing. "Queen Aeslyn asked me to find you at once. She said that it was urgent."

_Undoubtedly._ Damon frowned as he climbed down from the saddle and passed the reins of his horse to the waiting stableboy. The last time he had answered an "urgent" summoning from the Queen, he had arrived to find a rather unimpressed Lysene girl from the Velaryon's retinue locked in her bathroom.

Aeslyn had first claimed that the lady had slighted her, but once it had become clear that the retainer had a poor grasp of the common tongue and had been coerced into the Queen's apartments, Aeslyn had instead howled that Damon found the girl prettier than her.

Damon couldn't entirely deny it.

"Tell her I'll see her shortly," he lied. Ser Daelys bowed again and departed, leaving Damon to walk alongside his father's cousin to the Small Council chambers.

The pair of Valyrian sphinxes flanking the door watched his entrance through eyes of polished garnet in black marble faces. The council chamber stood elegantly furnished, evoking memories of the Baratheon King who had once sat between its walls.

Myrish carpets covered the floor, bronze and gold, and on the walls hung carved screens from the Summer Isles, depicting scenes of conquest and gluttony. In one a stag stood alone in an immense forest, in another fire rained down in splotches of red, gold, and orange.

Only four of the eight council seats sat occupied. Loren Lannister sat straight in one, speaking intently to the Master of Ships sitting next to him. Aemon Estermont towered over his brother by marriage, but he listened closely to the Lord's words and nodded silently. Rymar Royce was cleaning under his fingernails with a small dagger. The thin man looked up at Damon's entrance, but only smiled knowingly as the fourth member of the council jumped to his feet.

"Your Grace!" Thaddius bowed low, but the Hand showed no such formalities.

"Damon. You're back."

"Don't look so disappointed, Father." Damon pulled out the chair at the head of the long table, the one opposite the Hand, and collapsed into the seat with a sigh. He lifted one leg onto the table, then the other, crossing his feet at his ankles before leaning back into his chair. "I brought you the Daynes," he said. _And I dare_ _you to find fault with that._

"You brought _two_ Daynes, from what I understand," Loren replied, as though he had heard the unvoiced challenge. "And we only need the younger one alive. The knight you should have killed at Stonehelm."

Damon's face fell and his posture slackened somewhat. "Forgive me," he said. "I assumed that two hostages were better than one."

"Martyn is betrothed to Sarella Martell," Loren explained, resting a hand on the table and looking at his the King's boots with distaste. "He can be used to negotiate a peace with Dorne. Ser Ulrich, on the other hand, is a traitor not worth the space in your dungeons."

Damon opened his mouth to protest but Rymar cleared his throat loudly. "If I may, Lord Hand," the bald man began timidly, reaching for the papers that sat before him and shuffling them nervously, "Ser Ulrich is a paramour of our Dornish Princess. He is worth more to us than it would seem. Bringing the southernmost kingdom into the fold is of paramount importance, as I'm sure we can all agree, and since they have closed the Boneway and the Prince's Pass, we know that their loyalty to House Baratheon isn't strong enough to be unswayable."

Damon smiled in amusement at the revelation from the Master of Whispers. _The honorable Ser Ulrich, bedding his Princess. _

Loren made a grunt of displeasure. "The Martells stand alone, as they always have. Lord Gylen tried to speak with the Prince and was rebuffed. I doubt we will find more warmth in his daughter."

"Indeed." Rymar nodded. "Disturbing whispers of independence have reached my ears. Of course, talk is cheap, and all men can be bought. Women, too. During the reign of the Stag, Sarella Martell was fucking the Sword of the Morning, but shortly after you took the throne she began fucking his brother. Once the Princess knows that we have her lover and her betrothed, I am certain she will be willing to bargain."

"Shall I write her?" Damon asked, perhaps too eagerly, for his father immediately interjected.

"I will read whatever it is you intend to send first," he said.

Rymar set his papers down and slipped his hands into his sleeves. "There is still the matter of the Tyrell children," he reminded the council. "If you seek to barter with the Rose, you are in a fine position to do so."

Thaddius was beaming proudly, but Loren shook his head. "Lord Hightower will not abide it," he said.

"And the Stormlords?"

Damon had forgotten that Lord Estermont was present until he spoke, and he looked at his uncle with boredom. "What about them?" Damon asked. "They are Lord Connington's problem now."

If his flippancy offended Aemon, the Master of Ships did not show it. "Do you know his plans for Houses Swann and Seaworth, Your Grace?" he asked. "Lord Janos is an honorable man and Lord-"

"I did not ask," Damon interrupted. He was tired of the meeting already, and moreso the lack of recognition his father was offering for his victory. _What does it take to earn his praise?_ he wondered, not for the first time. He stole a glance at Thaddius, sitting straight in his polished white armor, and his brother gave him a warm smile.

"Are we boring you, Damon?"

Damon looked up at the sound of his name and saw Loren staring disapprovingly at him from across the table. He shifted uncomfortably beneath his father's gaze. "A little, yes," he said sardonically. "I've just arrived back and no one has even offered me a drink. Am I not a king now? I should have Lyseni virgins bringing me Arbor Gold in jeweled decanters while I lounge on silk pillows."

A small sandy haired boy in the corner strode forward hesitantly, a tray balanced in his hands, the vibrant sigil of House Swyft sewn onto the breast of his tunic. When Loren raised his hand, however, the cupbearer stopped at once, the chalices on his platter rattling.

Damon looked over his shoulder at the boy and then turned back to his father. "Really?" he asked. "Were they all out of Lyseni virgins?"

"If you will excuse us, my lords." Loren spoke through gritted teeth and kept his hard gaze trained on Damon. "I would have a word with the King in private."

The sound of chairs scraping against stone broke the tense silence. Thaddius hesitated for a moment before the Hand gave him a nod to leave as well, and Damon watched his brother depart with a sinking feeling. Even the cupbearer vanished.

"You look rather pleased with yourself," Loren remarked, when the door closed behind the last of the Small Council members.

"I _am_ pleased with myself, Father. For gods' sake, someone has to be."

"You require more praise than a juggler or a fool. Take your damned feet off the table. This is not a brothel or a winesink."

Damon obeyed reluctantly. "I'd rather be in either," he protested.

"Seven Kingdoms I've given you. More than most men could even dream of, and still you are as recalcitrant as ever. Are you incapable of gratitude?"

"Are _you_?" Damon retorted. "I've given you two Daynes and the Stormlands. I swear, it's as though it would physically pain you to tell me I've done something right."

Loren's gaze was hard as stone, and Damon looked away from it. _Thaddius would have gotten him four,_ he thought bitterly. _He'd have marched to Starfall and rounded up the sisters as well, gone to Essos for the brother and Oldtown for the maester and herded them all back to King's Landing to applause._

"Lord Durran Harlaw made an attempt for the Iron Islands," Loren said. "He flew the Stag's banner from his mast and claimed it an act against your rule. He was unsuccessful, of course, and the Greyjoys gave him a traitor's death. Don't look so surprised. A king should learn some poise."

Damon looked at the table and struggled to remember how he had felt when he first arrived back in the city. Hadn't he been proud?

"And don't tell me you've forgotten about the boy."

"What boy?" The wood grain of the table looked like rows of planted grain and Damon had a much easier time staring at that than looking into his father's eyes.

"The Baratheon."

"Prince Rickon?"

"He is no prince," Loren corrected him. "Your sons will be princes. Rickon is a prisoner, though it seems his father may have forgotten. It is high time you reminded him."

"Remind him how, exactly?" Damon frowned and glanced up at last. "Do you wish to supervise me while I write another letter?"

"What I wish," Loren said, "is for you to give him to the Velaryon."

"The Kingslayer?" _He cannot mean that._ "Rickon is hardly eight years old…"

"You are a king, Damon, as you seemed so proud to remind everyone just a moment ago, and kings do not rule with wine and pillows, they rule with steel and iron. I have given you a throne. Are you prepared to do what is necessary to keep it?"

Damon could feel a knot forming in his stomach, and began to search for that sensation he'd had when he rode through the River Gate not long ago. _I felt proud, _he remembered. _What a fleeting thing._

He left the small council chambers and made his way across the lower bailey purposefully, and a chilly breeze stirred the palms. It was warmer in the capital than it had been in Lannisport, but it was winter still and Damon wore lambswool and gloves made from virgin leather. His hands were warm, but he was worried about keeping them clean.

**\- BALON -**

"Our stores run low," Balon muttered to himself, scratching his quill to form tally marks on a worn piece of parchment. It was cold in the underground vaults beneath Castle Black and when the Lord Commander's steward sighed, his breath frosted in the air.

_If we don't increase our hunting, the men won't survive to see this winter's end. _

He tucked the parchment into his ledger, pulled his worn black cloak tightly around his shoulders, and carefully made his way up the icy wooden stairs.

The Lord Commander's tower was warm, and Balon walked silently through the hall before coming to a halt outside Rhaegar's door. He knocked once and entered, his mind working through his speech on the dwindling food stores.

Rhaegar was seated at his desk, a large and ancient tome open before him. The fire in the hearth crackled loudly and the Lord Commander's small dragon was asleep beside him, curled in a worn arm chair.

"Balon," Rhaegar greeted, briefly glancing up from his reading. "What do you know of the Children of the Forest?"

Balon shuffled his feet and took a step forward.

"Only the stories my wet nurse used to tell me at Harvest Hall. No man from the watch has seen the Children in hundreds of years. Most believe them extinct."

"Nonsense," Rhaegar said with a frown. "I can _feel _them, Balon. I can _feel _their magic in the world. I need to find a way to contact them."

Balon blinked and paused for a moment before pulling out his notes concerning the dwindling stores of food and supplies.

"Lord Commander there are more pressing matters at hand-"

"No," Rhaegar interrupted, his violet eyes unblinking. "Don't you see?"

He stood from his desk, open book in hand, and crossed the room to his steward. The Lord Commander thrust the ancient tome in front of Balon and pointed to the text.

"The prophecies from long ago were never fulfilled. His coming was said to be heralded by a bleeding star...the _same _bleeding star that I see in my dreams each night."

Balon blinked again. He had little faith in prophecies and little knowledge of the beliefs that Rhaegar preached. It was said that the blood of the dragon experienced prophetic dreams though, and Balon was not one to argue with ideas he could not even begin to comprehend.

"I am the Prince who was Promised, Balon," the Lord Commander continued. _"My_ song is the song of ice and fire. Why else would the gods see fit to place me, the blood of the dragon and the son of_ fire_, in this godforsaken frozen wasteland?"

The steward was thoroughly confused. "But what does that have to do with the Children of the Forest?"

"Everything," Rhaegar answered. "Their magic is the key." The Targaryen snapped the book closed and walked to stand in front of the fire. His dragon snorted in its sleep, sending plumes of white smoke into the air.

"I must find them," Rhaegar muttered into the flames. "And when Danae returns from Valyria, we will take back what was stolen from us."

Balon sighed. While it was certainly strange, this sort of speech from the Lord Commander was nothing new. He realized that any talk of food stores would fall upon deaf ears and so he slowly backed out of the room, his mind already thinking ahead to his inventory duties in the armory.

_I'll speak with him tomorrow,_ Balon decided. _When he's back to his normal self._

He was hit with a blast of cold air as he crossed the threshold and exited the Lord Commander's chambers. As he closed the door behind him he could hear Rhaegar speaking softly, still enraptured by the fire in the hearth.

_ "__I must find them."_

Some men said the winds of Spring were a blessing, a reminder from the gods that the cruelness of Winter was over, a reminder of the hopes and dreams and safety they granted in Summer. Some men said these things, but Balon knew that at the Wall even Spring bites through cloth and leather to chill your bones.

The snow was losing its sheen when he left Rhaegar's tower and made his way towards the commotion at the gate. The trees were fading from their green and night beasts were stirring from their sleep as dusk fell upon Castle Black.

A dark horse was slowly approaching, brown or black, tall, plodding slowly through the light coverage of snow, its reins and saddle old and wrinkled leather. Upon the garron sat an equally interesting man. Shielded under a long dark cloak, his face and eyes were hidden from Balon and the Night's Watchmen who he approached. Only his long, bone white hair blew about his chest.

"Hail, brothers of the Wall!"

The lone rider raised a hand in peaceful greeting, and some of the men on the snowy ramparts lowered bows.

"Who goes there?" Robert Snow was the one who called out, Balon would have recognized the ranger's gravelly voice anywhere.

"Artos of House Harclay. I come to answer your Lord Commander's call for a tour of service from any man with the courage to offer it." The stranger reached deep into his pockets and produced a crumpled scrap of parchment.

_The letter. _Balon groaned inwardly. He had not approved of Rhaegar's decision to allow men temporary positions with the Night's Watch. _What does that say of our noble Order? What does that say to the men who swore these vows for life?_

"We need men," Rheagar had told him. "And not these cutthroats and rapists the false kings send us. My army needs knights and soldiers, not children and thieves. They will come with these terms, and no others, and I'll be damned if I let the opinions of monsters stand in the way of more swords."

Balon eyed the white haired stranger on horseback at the gates with caution.

_Let us see what blade the Dragon has brought us._

**\- THE ROSE THAT WOULD BE QUEEN -**

Maude and Mellara sat with Rickon, as they had every morning since their capture. From the Maidenvault, the comings and goings of the usurper's Lords and supplicants could be seen through the late winter haar.

Maude hated looking at the bright banners and cheerful badges that they bore, but it took Rickon's mind away from their capture, and as Mellara said, it was important to keep the little Prince's spirits up.

So she consoled herself with the simple thought of the coming demise of these traitors and turncloaks. When the false King had ridden out, Mellara had assured Rickon that Damon wouldn't be riding back, that it would be the boy's heroic father with his wonderful knights coming down the streets to save them.

Well the wonderful knights had come back, in chains.

Maude had locked herself in their bedchambers when Damon had ridden back with Ser Ulrich in irons. Mellara had cooed to Rickon, assuring him of his father's well being, but Maude could barely talk these days without wanting to scream.

This morning was no different. Out of the mist, a ragged crew arrived under a sea blue banner, riding hard.

"Who is that one?" Rickon asked, pawing at Mellara's dress as he lounged in her lap.

Maude squinted at the banner. It was times like these that she realized just how little she had retained of her maester's lessons. The old stinking man who had been there most her childhood, and then Olyvar with his pink little ears, scrubbed eager and nervous.

_Who cares for all those small lords' banners. They only need to bow, I don't have to remember every stupid whoever of wherever that dined upon our table._

"Lord Sunglass maybe?" Mellara said unsure. "Young Lord Harlan had been at Harrenhal. Mayhaps he was captured?"

"I think Sunglass has a white banner," Maude said, a distant memory stirring in her mind. "Blue is the color of-"

"It is the Lord Velaryon," a heavily accented voice called from behind them.

Maude wheeled around, her heart suddenly racing as she forced herself to stand.

There before them was the strangest woman she had ever seen. At least, she thought it was a woman. They were garbed in dark blue fabrics, wrapped around their lithe figure and up their head, only the eyes showing, a deep blue like the silk.

Mellara stood too, clutching the little Prince to her skirts.

"Who are you?" Maude asked sharply. "No, how did you get in here? Who sent you?"

The veiled figure didn't seem to notice, or possibly, understand. She indicated a roughspun white tunic draped over her arm, and placed it on the bed.

"I have been sent by the King Damon," she explained, her accent thick and musical, words strange and misplaced. Her voice was thick, full, and Maude had to admit, beautiful. "The King dresses the boy in this."

Maude regained a little of her courage. She placed her hands on her hips haughtily.

"So the great Lion wants to shame his Prince now?" she snapped. "When Harys gets here, he will pay for all these slights, as will you!"

"That one, will wear this, rose girl," the veiled lady said, drawing up to her full height and turning to leave.

"Get back here!" Maude yelled, striding to follow. "How dare you talk like that to a Tyrell of Highgarden! When Father comes, I will have your head!"

It was too late, though. The lady had departed and Maude was left shivering with anger.

She let loose a frustrated yelp and began to pace the room fuming, punishments and penances filing her mind.

Presently, Mellara started to help Rickon dress.

"What are you doing?" Maude snapped. She stalked over, fists clenched.

Mellara ignored her, helping Rickon pull his tunic and undershirt off.

"Sister, what are you doing?" Maude said again, grabbing Mellara's arm.

Mellara locked eyes with her, with a harder stare than usual, then threw off her sister's arm.

"You're helping them too?" Maude said, sulking away. "You are actually helping these traitors..."

Mellara sighed as she pulled the roughspun over the Prince's head. She stroked Rickon's black hair and turned to her sister.

"If it may spare him a little pain, let the Lion have his fun," she reprimanded. "Don't let your pride get in the way. There will be time enough to repay all these slights when your Stag retakes his city."

Rickon, for his part, seemed to lack Maude's righteous anger. He gave a small shrug as Mellara took his hand and stood.

Maude huffed, and sat herself down. It was undignified. Cruel enough to keep them here, let alone wearing smallfolk rags like that.

Mellara drew the little Baratheon close.

"Now, you are going to be brave," she said, a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Whatever happens today... Be brave."

Finally, a rap came on the door.

"Who is it?" Maude shouted, feeling her voice shake, along with her body.

"Open up! Open up in the name of the King," a gruff foreign voice said from the other side of the heavy oak door.

Mellara and Maude exchanged confused looks.

"But, the door is locked from the other side."

The silence from the other side of the door was palpable, then they heard what suspiciously sounded like a reprimanding smack and some Valyrian grumbling in the bastard tongue of the Free Cities.

Eventually, and with much rattling, the door swung open, and in swaggered a brute.

He was almost seven foot high, and swarthy, with hair dyed a vicious red and gold. A wild beard accented his jaw, with gold and silver wired into it. Around him was wrapped a horrible cloth, marked with bloodstains, and something else. He caught Maude's eyes, and for a moment, the Tyrell girl felt as though this mountain was ravishing her with his wild orbs.

Then from behind the giant, another figure appeared, smaller but no less strange.

He wasn't ugly, to be sure, but there was something about this man that made Maude nervous. He stood as though nailed into the earth, in dark blues, with silver hair. His eyes had none of the ferocity of his company, but they were somehow even more terrifying. One green, one watery gray, but they held no love, no anger and no joy. Affixing a half cape to his shoulders was a silver pin, bearing a Seahorse.

_Lord Velaryon, _the girl thought.

"We shall be taking the Prince," the Lord said, looking around the room.

Maude fought her instincts and moved forward as two guards followed the Lord and the giant in.

"Under what grounds, good ser?" she asked, quavering.

"He is to write a letter to his father, _my lady_." The Velaryon said the last words like her father would say 'harlot.' It made her blood boil.

She squashed down her rage. Mayhaps this cold Lord would warm to a fair lady's charm.

"I wish to accompany him then," she said softly, batting her eyelashes at the Velaryon, "if it is truly only a letter."

The Velaryon broke her stare, and moved to go.

"Take the boy," he ordered, almost as an afterthought.

The giant smirked as he strode towards the Prince. Finally feeling braver, Maude threw herself between the huge man and her sister.

"What is the meaning of this?! He's only seven!" she shouted, rather louder than she had meant to. "And if he is just writing a letter, as you claim, have I no right to attend?"

The giant chuckled, sniffing in her direction like a dog. He loomed over her, his expression filthy.

"The letter Lord Varyo means to write is not one for a pretty thing like you to see," he drawled, his voice heavy with the Free City tongue. The giant licked his lips, undressing the Tyrell with his eyes.

"Maidensblood," the Lord Varyo said levelly, glancing at the colourful man. The giant stepped back, although his eyes remained locked on Maude.

_What kind of Lord is this Varyo, if he commands a man like that?_ Maude thought, as Mellara and Rickon quivered behind her.

"I give you my word, Tyrell. The boy will not die today," he said, strange eyes looking right through her. "Leave him now and you will not be harmed."

Maude couldn't help it. All the rage, all the insults, all the fear - it all had built up in her.

She kept her ground.

"No," she said, softly.

The Velaryon raised his eyebrows at her, as the guards behind him moved forwards.

"No," she said again, louder, repeating it until it became a scream, "No! NO! NO NO NO!"

The Lord waved his guards through, pushing the screaming girl aside. The Maidensblood went straight for the Prince, leaving Mellara sprawled out on the floor, clutching her face.

Maude screamed again, charging at the huge man. One of the guards caught her slender wrist. She pulled at it feebly, throwing a blow at the armoured man.

Rickon was taken over the giant's shoulder, crying and thrashing helplessly over his back.

Maude's other hand was caught, the gauntlet cold against her skin. She felt hot tears spring unwillingly to her eyes once more.

"Get the boy down stairs then," the Velaryon ordered, and Maude felt the grip on her slacken. The colourful man left, with the little Prince over his shoulder.

Maude let out an incoherent scream of rage. All of this. They had taken everything from her. All of the loss, the heartache. How could they understand? How could they possibly understand?

"Usurper! Craven!" she shouted, feeling her body burn. She ran to the hall, screaming through the door. "You've taken everything! Everything that was meant to happen! How dare you!"

She saw the Velaryon smirk, as his guards reached him. That just made it worse.

"You can't possibly know! You and all the rest! One day I hope you lose as much as me! Then you'll finally understand!"

The Lord had begun walking towards her. His smile had disappeared, which gave her great joy. He came close, eyes dark.

"One day, you're going to lose just as much as me," Maude told him, softer, and she hoped, darker. "Then you'll know what it means."

She smirked, just as the Velaryon had done, and then the silver-haired man struck her in the belly. Hard.

Maude dropped to her knees with a choked sob. She wanted to vomit, could not catch her breath. It felt as though a part of her had come unstuck. Above, pure fiery hate burned in the Velaryon's eyes, and Maude doubled over as another wave of pain hit.

The Lord walked from the room, stopping at the door. The veiled lady from earlier was there, holding it open.

For a moment the two strangers' eyes met. Then the door closed, and Maude was deeply aware of a wetness growing between her legs.

**\- THE YOUNG CAPTAIN -**

Harlan Lannett whistled as he strode down the crowded corridor, brushing shoulders with the guards as he went, a steady stream of red and gold cloaks.

The capital had been busy since the sack, with more arrivals every day. Lords and ladies flocked from far and wide got it to swear new vows of fealty, and Harlan had watched their ships come in from the docks each morning. It wasn't a bad assignment, to be sure. The bay's breeze was pleasant, if more rank than Lannisport's, but the Captain he served was surly and never laughed at his japes, nor did he approve of the way Harlan liked to chat with the highborn women who descended the gangplanks with their lords and fathers and brothers.

"Watch where you're going!" he barked as one of the gold cloaks bumped into him roughly, nearly sending him tumbling. The man paid him no mind, not even a second glance. Harlan grumbled, rubbing his shoulder and adjusting the clasps to his yellow cloak, not wanting the crimson wildcat to appear wrinkled for his meeting with the steward.

Lyman was standing when the Lannett entered his solar. The man was dressed in purple samite, a blue sash slung elegantly over one shoulder and long blonde hair pulled back with a ribbon of silk to match. He looked down his long slender nose at Harlan and his face contorted into an expression of mild disgust, as though there were some foul odor in the room.

"Oh," he said. "You're here."

"You summoned me," reminded Harlan. He did not care for the steward's look, and bowed only as low as he thought he could get away with.

"Yes, but I had been hoping you might not come," Lyman replied. "If you hadn't, then I could have bestowed this title on a man more deserving. Or, at the very least, a man." He held a sheet of parchment between long pale fingers, and toyed with the paper's corner as he spoke.

"Title?" Harlan asked, taking the bait and rubbing self consciously at the wispy hairs on his chin.

Lyman sighed. "The Commander of the gold cloaks is looking to appoint a captain to the Lion's Gate. The last one was slain during the sack of the city."

_Could it be?_

"I know," Harlan answered, suddenly standing a little straighter, "I was there. Does Borrell mean to name me?"

Lyman laughed. "Gods, no. You are to be the Captain of the household guard. Clearly the King saw in you a tremendous potential for standing around with your sword in hand." He shrugged. "Or, more likely, the King's Hand saw an empty position and a chance to reward his loyal kin. No matter. You get a fine new title out of it, and some men to order around. More than you deserve."

"Why mention the gold cloaks at all, then?"

"Why, I just wanted to see if you were daft enough to think you'd be considered for the role." He set the parchment down and took a sip from the chalice on his desk. "I was right, of course. I often am."

"I will be charged with defending the King and the royal family," Harlan murmured in awe.

"No, you are not a knight of the Kingsguard. You will be charged with making sure there are soldiers in red cloaks standing about the castle at all times. Do you think you can handle that _tremendous _responsibility?"

"I am certain of it."

"Good. Then why don't you make yourself useful in your new capacity and go receive the envoys from Driftmark?"

Harlan swaggered down to the antechamber, and so enthused was he that twice he almost fell down the stairs. That Lyman did so love to put a dour spin on the proceedings, but Harlan knew the truth: his Lord, no King, was proud of him. Proud enough to hand him control of that fine order of red cloaks.

The newly made Captain hummed to himself as he entered the chamber.

It was a strange party that awaited him, that was for certain. Three men dressed in rainbow rags over piecemeal armor and a knight taller than Harlan by a head, with a young squire behind him.

"Greetings," Harlan said, smile wide and beaming on his fair face. "I am Harlan Lannett, Captain of Damon's Guard."

_Gods it feels good to say that, _he thought as the strangers made to join him.

"Seven blessings to you," one of the ragged men said. His hair was silver, as was a long beard that made him appear to be much older than Harlan now realized. "I am Ser Laenor Velaryon, these are my companions, Ser Durrum Waters and Ser Colin Waynwood. We are the members of the Most Devout Order of the Holy Hundred."

"Holy Hundred?" Harlan asked blankly. "But there are only three of you."

A flash of annoyance passed across the knight's face.

"Yes, for the time being. I seek counsel with the King," he said sharply.

The tall man who was separate from the group lumbered over. He was bulky and grizzled, like a bull in armor with piercing blue eyes, and seemed old enough to be Harlan's grandfather.

"And I, too, seek to speak with his Grace. I bear news," he said, voice rumbling like water on stone. "We have come from Driftmark. I am Ser Ryman Sunglass."

"Right," Harlan said, remembering his duties. "Of course. Please follow me."

Quickly, and as efficiently as possible, the young Captain led the party through the lower levels of the keep. He of course talked the whole way, to the continuing distress of Laenor.

A young servant girl rounded the corner carrying a tray, unprepared for such a large party as this. She lost her balance, barreling into Ser Ryman's squire.

To his credit, the boy caught her.

"Pardon me, m'lord," she said, blushing. The girl rushed to pick up her tray, leaving with a bow.

The squire looked stunned.

"Eyes front, Robb," Ser Ryman said with a quick scuff.

Finally, they arrived at the King's study. Harlan entered with a bow.

Damon lay slumped on his desk, hands over his eyes. He pulled himself up with a start as the group made their way in.

"My Lord," Harlan said extravagantly before taking up his position at the door. "Might I present the honorable Lay-nore Velaryon, Colin Waynwood and Durram Waters, knights of the Holy Threesome, and Ser Rymar Sunglass."

Damon blinked dumbly, before wiping a strand of drool from his lips and raising his hands in petulant defeat. He took a long drink from a cup on the table as the company coughed politely, and then refilled the chalice messily.

"So then, what exactly can I do for you that my father cannot?" he said at last.

"Your Grace," Laenor spoke, stepping forward. "We have traveled far and wide…"

The Knight began on a very long, and very dull story. Harlan forced himself to stand against the wall as he heard some talk of the Gods and of knights and of divine justice and the like. Abridging the conversation for his own convenience, he ascertained that this Laenor was a Holy Man, who wanted to get other Holy Men together so that they could all be Holy together.

Harlan wasn't exactly sure he liked the sound of that, especially with some of the whispers that you so often heard about Holy Men. Not so much Holy Women, he observed though, no matter how mood crazed a young man might have been, or how attractive a septa might have looked in her robes.

The tale that came after Laenor's was more interesting, also easier to follow. Told by the hulking knight, it went like this.

Robert Velaryon was a very lustful man, he had loads of kids, but his trueborn heir had joined the Kingsguard, and then there was a bastard who had tried to take his place, but then something happened and he fled. Now Robert was dead and his pirate brother - who was also strangely enough called Damon - was back and now he was Lord.

So now Ser Ryman was here, asking for help, and was willing to join the Kingsguard as recompense.

Damon seemed to like that, but also seemed to still be suffering the after effects of Laenor, so Harlan wasn't certain.

"I suppose I could use another knight," he said idly. "And you don't seem to be the Kingsguard type, so that is to your credit."

Damon stood, slightly unsteadily.

"Very well, Ser Ryman Sunglass, I do swear you to protect me and do what I say and all that rubbish. Protect the innocent, defend the weak." He gave a short and bitter laugh and took another long drink before continuing. "And I will have someone deal with the problem of this pirate Lord," he said when he set the chalice back down, "once we've dealt with the one hundred and one other problems I am already sorting out."

He made a lazy gesture to the mountain of papers on his desk, the ones he had been sleeping on before the interruption, and then scratched at the stubble forming on his face, staring vacantly into empty space for a long moment before seeming to remember they were there.

"You can leave now," he offered, picking up his cup and mumbling his next words into the chalice, "I do hereby dismiss you and whatnot and so forth. Titles, titles."

Harlan snapped to attention, ushering the guests from the solar with the diligence and elegance of a drunk cook shooing children from the kitchens.

_I was born for this role,_ he thought happily, as Damon collapsed once more onto the desk. _And my King is going to be so proud._

**\- DANAE -**

Danae remembered little, and what she knew came to her in flashes, slipping away like water between her fingers when she grasped for the details.

She recalled the smell of sulfur, the trembling of earth beneath a horse's hooves, and tongues of heat lashing against her body. Most of all, she remembered the screams of her dragon as Persion opened his jaws and set the world around them ablaze in golden fire.

When she awoke, the smoke and ash of Oros had given way to a hazy gray dawn, a gentle salt breeze, and the familiar face of her friend swimming slowly into view.

"She's awake!" James cried.

Danae raised a hand to shield her eyes from the harsh daylight, and blinked as the room came into focus. The gaps between the chamber's wooden planks were wide enough to slip a finger through, and dawn did just that, sending slivers of light between the cracks and illuminating crooked wooden furniture, scratchy linens, and a dusty bedside table.

"Where am I?" she mumbled, trying to sit up. Her body ached, the effort left her winded, and James sprung forward to ease her back onto the mattress when her strength failed.

"We are at the port, Your Grace." Summer's voice was like music to Danae's ears, and she felt herself smiling almost involuntarily at the sound of it. "Between Volantis and Mantarys."

"Captain Doniphos," she murmured groggily, glancing between the two faces of her friends. "He said that we had to be back or else he would leave without us… He said…"

"It's alright, Danae." James squeezed her hand. "We made it."

She regained her strength slowly as the days passed, awaiting the return of the Captain. Summer ventured out each morning in search of news and provisions, the Grand Maester spent every hour of precious daylight scribbling in his books, and James was ever at her side.

Persion ranged far afield during the day, a mere speck in the sky among the haze of the clouds. His distance didn't trouble Danae. The two were bonded by the visions that came to her each night, dreams of tigers and elephants, orange suns, and roaring lions. In her dreams her dragon was large and fierce, his eyes molten pools of golden fire and his teeth dripping dark crimson.

_Fire and Blood_, she thought when she spied him soaring between the clouds. At night he always returned to her, curling his long frame beside her own and warming her with his scales. He had grown since they left the ruin and ash behind, and each day he seemed larger still.

When Doniphos did arrive, Danae greeted him at the shore, Persion rising up behind her with his white and golden wings outstretched, his serpentine neck coiled back as if to strike, black smoke rising from flared nostrils.

For their journey to Volantis, Danae was given the captain's quarters.

She was unsure where she should go next, and each member of her company held a different opinion. They stood on the deck of the ship one evening, Doniphos included, watching the waves crash against the hull and the dragon soar over their heads.

"You need an army now," James counseled. "We should seek sellswords."

_"_With what gold?" Danae replied, her violet eyes tracking Persion as he glided into a graceful dive, his belly skimming the surface of the sea.

_"_The Sealord of Braavos is a powerful man," Summer offered. "He's not yet taken a wife, but he hasn't yet met the last Targaryen and her dragon."

"I don't want Braavos," Danae countered. "Or the blue-bearded Sealord."

The Grand Maester offered little more than nods of approval at Danae's rejection of each idea.

"Westeros," he said. "The alliances you need are in Westeros."

"My sister is Queen of Westeros-"

"Your sister is a mad woman," Orin interrupted. "Not every lord or lady is pleased with the usurper King and his insane dragon wife."

"You will need a fleet to get you to these allies," Captain Doniphos pointed out, "and gold to purchase an army."

"We know that," Danae said flatly, her patience running thin. She knew what she needed. _I may be yet a girl, but I am not a fool._ She knew she needed ships, and men to steer then, and she knew they both cost gold, but coin was something she had precious little of.

_Persion is all I have._ High above, his yellow spinal crest glinted in the sunlight._ He is gold of a different sort._

"Do you have any suggestions on how to _obtain _these ships and gold, Captain?"

"I once told you that I was an opportunist," Doniphos replied with a grin. He followed Danae's gaze to the skies and her dragon. "The streets of Volantis run red with blood. Hordes of slaves rebel against their masters, and the triarchs are at each other's throats. There is no longer a clear ruling party. After all, tigers or elephants, it makes no difference to the slaves.

"The districts are becoming a battleground between the various factions, and even the nobles do not feel safe behind their walls. The captains of the Volantene trading fleet have taken anchor just off shore. Thousands of men sitting in wait for the bloodshed to end." He paused to wink at Danae. "But with great turmoil, comes great opportunity."

"Great opportunity in the spoils of a slave revolt," Summer interjected doubtfully. "Tell me what 'great opportunities' you see for our Queen, Captain Doniphos."

"She takes the city for herself," he answered simply. "Volantis is a hub of commerce, and among the trade captains we have as large a force as any other faction. Use her dragon and the reputation of her bloodline to crush the rebellion and bring the city beneath her rule."

"But I don't want to rule Volantis-"

"You don't," he said with a shrug. "But we do. Win the city for my faction and you will be rewarded gold and ships to do with as you please. You can sail to your allies in Westeros with an army and a fleet, and a forever faithful ally in the Old City."

"What experience do you have with rule?" James asked. "You're a trade captain. How can you expect to lead an entire city?"

The Captain raised an eyebrow and shrugged. "What experience does your Queen have?"

Danae watched the bravo's face redden and he looked to her in silent protest of the captain's words. She smiled a rare smile and looked back to the captain.

"I will help you take control of the city for the price you promised me. I want gold from the vaults and ships from the fleet," she began. "But if you betray me or refuse my payment I will turn the rebellion against you, lay waste to your trade ships, and burn your city to the ground. It is in your best interest to remain loyal to me, Captain Doniphos."

The captain held her gaze and grinned as the dragon screeched above him. "I swear you my loyalty and the loyalty of Volantis."

"Then we have a deal," Danae said with a curt nod and turned back toward the sea as the lights from Old Volantis began to appear on the horizon.

**\- ULRICH -**

_I have failed._

The last torch sputtered in its sconce. The glow it cast in the cold, damp cell dwindled steadily, shrinking more and more with each passing minute. Soon his cramped chamber would be shrouded in darkness, Ulrich knew, and the old stones he had become well acquainted with would disappear entirely.

The cell's bricks and mortar were crumbling, its floors caked in dirt and grime. The dankness had taken him ill, and the dust only made him suffer more, his coughs echoing in the lonely place, reverberating off the low ceiling. The iron shackles on his wrists and ankles were the only things holding him upright.

He hung there, measuring his life against the lives of his ancestors, when the heavy iron door creaked open.

"Ser Ulrich," called a familiar voice. A figure was framed in the doorway, silhouetted against the corridor's torchlight.

"Ah," Ulrich said, lifting his head weakly and blinking, "the Lion comes at last."

It felt like a lifetime since Ulrich had seen the usurper's face, an eternity in the dark of a ship's hold, listening to the hollow sounds of the sea. He could still remember his brother's horn in the Lion's hand. His dreams were haunted by its call, and the leap in his heart when he'd ran to answer it.

All for nothing. Martyn had been captured. A trick.

He had failed.

"I'm terribly sorry that I couldn't visit sooner," the usurper spoke, stepping into the cell. The irons cut into Ulrich's wrists as his hands clenched into fists. "I've just been so awfully busy ever since they gave me this crown. It is hard to find time to drop in on friends. I seem to be shackled to my work."

Damon held no torch, and the room remained dim, but Ulrich could see a familiar faint smile, and the rubies that glinted on his crown.

"You seem in good spirits," he remarked bitterly. "Sleeping better now, are you? Did you lie to me at Stonehelm, Damon? You hardly seem a man burdened by guilt."

"And what would you know about my burdens?" The smile vanished, and Ulrich thought that Damon looked almost offended by the remark. "You've never worn a crown. You don't know the choices it comes with."

"Choices?" Ulrich scoffed. "What choices does Damon Lannister struggle with? Arbor gold or Dornish red? Which brothel to visit, which whore to lie with?"

"Not every decision I make is easy, Ulrich." He glared. "And half of them aren't choices at all. You gave me no choice at Stonehelm."

"Is that why you've come here? To shift your guilt onto me? What do you want me to say, that I made you slaughter those boys?

"They stood for you, and you stood against me. You gave me no choice."

_But they will be remembered in the songs,_ Ulrich knew, their faces swimming in his memory. They had to be. He'd told them so.

"Tell your woes to your winecups," Ulrich said, "I will not relieve you of this burden. Let each and every child weigh on you until you suffocate from it all."

"That child-" Damon seemed flustered for a moment and paused to gather his thoughts. "Those children," he began anew, "their fate was decided. A king rules with steel and iron, and I had to do what was necessary to keep this throne."

Ulrich laughed, a hollow sound that bled out into a rasping cough.

"You do this funny thing where you open your mouth and your father's voice comes out," he said. "Loren Lannister spit in the King's face when he married that ironborn traitor, and he raised you to be just like him. There isn't a shred of honor inside you. I know few knights who would stoop to such lows in battle, to sound my brother's war horn in a mock call for aid."

"I'm no knight, Ulrich." Damon shrugged. "Your brother fell to Robert Manderly, and his horn was a prize. That is how battles work. You should be grateful I allowed him to live."

Ulrich snorted. "You spent too much time on Pyke." His skin was rubbed raw and bloody where the shackles bound him, and he grit his teeth in pain and anger. "And why did you let _me_ live?" he demanded. "I would have met an honorable death, a warrior's death."

"Or perhaps your horse would have misstepped and fallen, and crushed you beneath its weight. Or maybe you yourself would have tripped, and landed on some discarded mace. Or perhaps you would have taken an axe to the arm and bled out on the muddy earth. Not every death on the battlefield is glorious or honorable. Shouldn't you know that better than I? How many men did you see fall at Stonehelm, thanks to your _honor_?"

Ulrich shook his head, and smiled a resentful smile. "Say what you will, Damon, you always do, but it was a mistake to bring me here alive and you know it. What will you do with me now? Why have you thrown me in this forgotten cell in some deep dungeon?"

"We were all out of beds, I'm afraid. This is a pitifully small castle." When Ulrich said nothing in reply, Damon sighed. "To be honest," he went on, "this was not my first choice for your confinement. No, it seems rather unfair to deny you a chamber worthy of your noble birth, but I'm afraid you've made many enemies in your adventures since leaving King's Landing, and some of them would be most unhappy to cross paths with you.

"If you would believe me, this cell is the safest place for you in the Red Keep. If you wouldn't believe me, well, that doesn't really matter. The wonderful thing about the truth is that it is same regardless of whether or not it is believed."

Ulrich laughed in spite of himself. "Listen to yourself. You speak like a king, you look like a king, you walk like a king… You even wear a bloody crown."

Damon _did_ look like a king, as much as Ulrich was loathe to admit it. The Lannister was dressed finely in deep crimson and shining black, a cloak of red slung carelessly over his shoulders. And his crown… it seemed even brighter than Ulrich last remembered it, though surprisingly unornate for a king from a house known for its magnificent displays of wealth. The circlet was wrought in gold and beautifully etched, with one asscher ruby place at its center and several of the stones cut baguette along the band. The diadem sat glittering across his forehead.

"What do you plan to do with me, I wonder?" Ulrich mused aloud. "You could set me free to run back to King Harys or Princess Sarella, but that would be foolish. You could flay me, bit by bit, piece by piece, as Varyo intended." Something changed in Damon's face at those words, and Ulrich regarded him curiously. "But, alas, you are not that stupid nor that cruel."

Damon spoke sadly. "Ulrich, if you do not think me cruel, then you have not been paying attention."

The silence in the cell was broken only by the sputtering of the dying torch.

"Do not mock me, Damon." Ulrich's voice was low and filled with anger. "Do you take pride in your lack of honor? Your broken vows? A knight you are not, that is true, but you swore your own promises, and your father, too. Do you think yourselves better for breaking them? For breaking your fealty to your King, all so that you can have an ugly chair to sit upon? You'll never be comfortable in that seat, because in the back of your mind you'll know what foul deeds took you to it. What foul deeds and betrayals you went along with."

The torch was nearly extinguished, the last of its light slowly fading, shadows creeping along the walls. Damon stood tall, the rubies of his crown turning darker than blood as the light slowly died.

"Foul deeds and betrayals," he repeated. "Do you know what happens when we stop keeping our vows and our promises, and leave the realm to chaos and conquest?" He looked at the broken knight, shackled and bound to the dungeon wall. "The best man wins."

With that, the King was gone, out through the iron doors. As they groaned shut behind him, the torch snuffed out with a final soft breath.

_The best man does, Damon._


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

**\- DANAE -**

Night had come to Volantis with fire and steel. The setting sun left a city awash in crimson and fury, and by the time it rose the following morn, gray and pale like some sickly shadow of its former self, the shouts of revolt had quieted and plumes of black smoke snaked above the flat rooftops, curling and twisting lazily into the morning sky above bright golden flames. The mud of the shadowtown and the city alike was red with blood baking in the morning heat. A red riverbed for a twin of the Rhoyne.

Half the harbor was aflame still, whilst trading galleys moved through the thick dark smoke that poured from the jetties and warehouses on the shore. A strange ship with sails as black as its timbers glided amidst the wreckage, passing massive wide bottomed boats from Yi-Ti attempting to do the same before the fire spread. Further inland, up by the Fishmonger's Square, a company of cavalrymen broke through a barricade, leaving bodies piled in rows like the fish that still hung from the stalls.

Fighting continued still upon the Long Bridge, where a squad of mighty elephants had made their stand. The corpse of one of the beasts bled into the water below, the gulls already feeding on its remains. Many of the nobles cowered behind the Black Walls, the fused Valyrian stone saving those lucky enough to have made it to the compound in time, while more of the unlucky Freeholders lost their lives in the streets.

"All men bleed just the same," James told Danae when the rays of dawn spilled over the ancient city to illuminate the carnage. "Slaves, smallfolk, and nobles. It makes no difference."

They stood atop the steps of Volantis' great Merchant's House, Danae clad in her ragged tunic and a worn leather jerkin bearing deep cuts from the Demon Road. Loosened tendrils of her pale blonde braid whipped wildly in the wind stirred by the dragon's wings, and her scuffed leather riding boots were caked in a mixture of red and brown filth.

_On this journey they have been filled with snow, blood, saltwater, and the dust of an ancient ruin_, she mused. _They have taken me through ruins and waste, the sacking of a city, and soon they will take me to Westeros._

For centuries in the ancient city of Volantis, triarchs had slept between their silken sheets, dreaming peacefully as their slaves sharpened long knives in their kitchens. Now, outside the Merchant's House, those who survived waited in hordes. Slaves and nobles alike stood on their toes and climbed atop broken rooftops and the gnarled branches of ancient olive trees in order to catch a glimpse of the Targaryen and her dragon.

For the first time in centuries, the first daughter of Valyria was host to a Dragonlord, and it was both frightened and awestruck.

"Bring them to me," Danae commanded.

The Captain's men brought the three reigning triarchs to kneel at the foot of the steps. Each of the rulers had been stripped of their badges, and their bare soles bled from their forced march barefoot across the debris that littered the streets they had once owned.

The first was defiant, his silver gold hair torn out in handfuls, and purple eyes reflected his resentment. Another was weeping softly, tears running down his fat pudgy face and into the folds of his huge neck. The last was sullen and dazed, a head wound leaking blood into his eye where a blow had struck him.

Danae extended a hand, upon which James placed three badges, each one made of brilliant gold and jade, carved in the shapes of elephants and tigers and each flecked with blood.

"Centuries of corruption," Captain Doniphos muttered from behind her. "Centuries of slavery and torture and abuse all come to an end on this day. On this day and at your command, my Queen. Say the word and end the torment of thousands."

Danae's eyes never left the faces of the men in chains, their eyes so similar to her own, and to her father's. The steady hum of the voices in the streets rose to a chanting crescendo above Persion's screams of fire and blood. The dragon circled overhead, great white wings unfurled like the sails of a warship.

"Execute them," Danae commanded, voice unwavering.

All it took were three swift swings of a sharpened blade, and fresh blood wet the streets of Old Volantis once again.

**\- NATHANIEL -**

_Breathe, Nathaniel, breathe._

He straightened the collar of his stiff woolen doublet and regarded his reflection in the glass grimly. It wasn't like him to be so nervous. How many times had he stared down murderers, rapists, and other unsavory criminals in his role as Master of Laws for his brother? He reached for the chalice on the table, running through the list of names in his mind once more.

_Aemon Estermont, the Master of Ships. Orys Connington, the Stormland's new Lord Paramount. Stafford Lannister, a cousin to Lord Loren. Lyman of Lannisport, some coin counting counselor. Rymar Royce, the Master of Whisperers. _

Rymar had some sort of nickname, but Nathaniel could not recall it, try as he might. _The Snake? The Bird? What was it? _He stared down at the wine in his cup.

Arbor Gold. A vintage, and expensive no doubt. There were half a dozen more bottles of it in the cabinet in his new quarters, along with juicy plums, black bread, and ripe cherries. Nathaniel was not a man of luxuries, but he _was_ a man who could appreciate good food, and good wine even more so.

He finished the cup and then left, finding two members of his household guard awaiting him in the hall, the familiar blue and white sigil on their surcoats a welcoming sight in a castle so filled with red and gold and black.

_Lord Loren pushes his new daughter's claim well, _Nathaniel thought as he passed beneath the Iron Throne's banner, the flags of Houses Lannister and Targaryen stitched together side by side, but for every three headed dragon there were a dozen golden lions, roaring resplendent on fields of bloody crimson.

The Small Council chambers were a good distance from his quarters in the main keep, which gave the knot in Nathaniel's stomach plenty of time to tighten. By the time he reached the jade sphinxes just outside, he was certain he was sweating.

The soldiers who opened the doors were clad in Lannister red and steel helms, and so were the men who stood in the shadows inside with the exception of two knights in white plate, one huge and hulking, the other lean and smirking, and a third seated at the table that could only be Thaddius Lannister.

With his hair straight and golden, his face boyishly handsome, the knight looked the embodiment of youth. The Lord Commander sat tall and rigid in his seat, unlike the one who must have been his brother, crowned and slumped over the table with a head of curly blonde hair in his hands, nodding distantly at the words Lord Loren spoke.

"The Kingswood," the Lannister patriarch was saying, tracing his finger along the worn creases of a parchment map set out upon the table. "Harys is a fool to march here. The forest will choke his lines, and with the Stormlanders coming from the east and Lord Hightower at his back, he will be forced into our teeth."

"Baratheons were never known for the celerity of their minds," the King remarked, stifling a yawn.

It was Loren who noticed Nathaniel first, but the Hand barely gave him a second glance. "Lord Arryn," he said simply, gesturing to an empty chair at the table. "Sit."

Nathaniel took the seat he was offered, sitting down stiffly and offering a nod of greeting to each of the men present.

"Lord Rymar."

The Master of Whisperers smiled congenially. "Lord Arryn, welcome to King's Landing," he said in honeyed tones.

"Lord Commander."

"Nathaniel." Thaddius' greeting was warm. "It's been so long."

"Lord Estermont."

"Lord Arryn," the Stormlord said, his rugged face somber, "My condolences for the loss of your brother. James was an honorable man."

"Lord Connington."

Orys gave a beaming smile with his greeting, and leaned over the table to take Nathaniel's hand in a vice grip. "A pleasure to meet you, Arryn," he said, giving it a hearty shake.

After Connington released him, Nathaniel turned to the monarch in the room, whose circlet of gold and rubies shone in the chamber's dim candlelight. "Your Grace."

"Hm." Damon lifted his green eyes from the map only briefly.

"Lord Hand."

Nothing.

Lord Connington coughed, Lord Estermont stared at the table, and Lord Royce suddenly found something about the ceiling very interesting.

"Who will lead the van?" Damon asked idly in the silence that followed.

"Not you, if that's what you were thinking." Loren's voice was iron, but his son was quick with a rebuttal in his own cheerful voice.

"Why not? I managed the sacking of the capital well enough, didn't I? I killed one Baratheon in battle, I'll gladly kill another for you."

"Spare us your arrogance. You killed Joseph," Loren pointed out. "A big man, yes, but a bookish one. You want to be extolled for killing a scholar? Hardly a feat to be so proud of. If you kill the runt Cleos will you also expect laud?"

"I didn't say-"

"Lord Stark's men will comprise the van," Loren explained. "If the North truly wishes to support our cause, let them prove their loyalty thusly. The Reach will lead with their cavalry, the best in Westeros, and I'd rather blunt their charge with the lives of men that mean the least to me."

Thaddius Lannister swallowed. "Fath- Lord Hand," he said quickly. "Surely it isn't wise to risk the life of one of the Lord Paramounts in such a way." He drummed his fingers anxiously on the small council table.

"Lord Stark has a brother," Loren pointed out.

"A blind one," Damon added, still sounding relatively chipper despite his father's criticisms.

"And after that, the heir to Winterfell is Lord Arryn's nephew." Loren finally turned his gaze to Nathaniel. "If Jojen should fall and his sibling prove incapable, Lord James' son will inherit Winterfell and Lord Nathaniel's heir will inherit the Vale. I hardly see much issue with those risks."

_The Vale. Again. Why does everyone want the kingdom to be mine but me?_

"Perhaps it will not come to that," Nathaniel said delicately. "Lord Stark's men could lead the van but he needn't be present himself. Something else to consider would be that the North could potentially view it as a slight. Their loyalties to His Grace are already cause for suspicion." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and chose his next words carefully. "I am aware that the enmity between Houses Stark and Lannister runs deep, but perhaps such things are best set aside in decisions like these."

The Hand's icy green eyes bore into Nathaniel from across the table. _Seven Hells. Only days in King's Landing and I may have already lost my head._ He braced himself for Lord Loren's reaction, but was saved by his son.

Damon yawned. Loudly. "If no one wishes to offend the North, then so be it. I have a group of knights desperate to prove themselves, the Something Hundred. The Happy Hundred. The…" He frowned for a moment, and then waved a hand dismissively. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. Throw _them_ in the van. They practically begged it of me."

Loren turned his attention back to his oldest son and the tense moment passed. Nathaniel felt his shoulders slump in relief, and Thaddius too seemed to relax in his seat.

The rest of the meeting passed by with little disagreement and less chastising, especially when Damon found his cup. Drinking allowed the King less time for speaking, which meant that the Hand could spend less time correcting every word that came out of his mouth.

Nathaniel regarded the two curiously. He had last known Damon as a mischievous teenager, visiting the Vale with his lordly father and younger brother. The three were meant to come falconing with himself, his father, and James, but Damon had overslept that morning and so only Thaddius came along. Loren was cold and unreadable, Thaddius was eager to show off his skill at hunting, and when they finally arrived back the Eyrie, Damon didn't seem to realize he'd had somewhere he was supposed to be that morning.

The years seemed to have changed the three of them little.

When Nathaniel finally emerged from the Small Council chambers, he exhaled deeply.

"You were holding your breath in there too, eh?" asked a jovial voice. He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and turned to see Lord Connington's smiling, bearded face. "I've heard stories of Lord Loren, but the man's even more of a hardass than they say! It's like sitting down to dinner with a White Walker. Brilliant, though, he is."

Nathaniel gave a grim smile in return. "Lord Lannister is intimidating," he agreed, "but I am honored His Grace would consider me worthy of serving on the Small Council alongside his own father."

Orys laughed. "His Grace, yes. King Damon made many a decision in there, didn't he? Do you think chooses his own clothing each morning, or does that task fall to his father, too?" He gave Nathaniel a slap on the back that nearly knocked him over, and when he regained his balance the newly made Master of Laws looked over his shoulder nervously. _They say this castle has ears. Connington is either bold or stupid._

The Stormlord cut him off before he could manage a reply. "Alyce! There you are!"

Nathaniel followed Orys' gaze and felt his breath hitch in his throat. There, coming towards them across the castle yard, was the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. Her hair was redder than a Reach apple, hanging long around a pale and pretty face with full lips and eyes of the deepest brown.

"Brother," the apparition said, embracing Lord Connington.

"Alyce, this is Nathaniel Arryn, Regent Lord Paramount of the Vale and Master of Laws for the Iron Throne."

Nathaniel didn't realize it was him being introduced until the parade of titles ended and he found himself staring the extended hand of the woman before him, her skin a ghostly white.

"It is a pleasure, Lord Arryn."

"I…"

Orys slapped him on the back. "Go on, then, Arryn!" he laughed. "It is impolite to stand there with your mouth agape. Kiss my sister's hand."

Nathaniel quickly shut his mouth, a flush creeping up his neck, and did so obediently. The Lady Connington giggled, and her laughter sounded like the tinkling of septry bells.

"I… It is good to meet you, Lady Ar- Lady Connington."

"Come then, Alyce. I'm sure you want to hear all about this small council prattle."

Alyce rolled her entrancing eyes. "Spare me, Orys," she said. "Talk of war bores me, you know that."

Connington gave Nathaniel another wide grin. "I will see you on the morrow," he said in farewell, and then his sister took his arm.

Alyce Connington looked over her shoulder as they walked away, and her luscious red lips curled into a warm smile. Nathaniel stood dumbly on the spot, watching as she turned back to laugh at some jape of her brother's, dark eyes sparkling, fiery hair falling in waves down her pale back.

A hand on his shoulder broke his trance.

"Lord Arryn."

He jumped, startled by the melodic voice of Lord Rymar.

"Rymar," Nathaniel said. He regarded the Master of Whisperers with suspicion. "Can I assume you were eavesdropping on that entire conversation? I warn you, Lord Royce, I answered the King's call to duty to oversee matters of law and justice in the realm. I have no desire to engage in any of the games or politics at King's Landing. You will have to look elsewhere for a player."

"No games, Lord Arryn." A smile crept slowly across the bald man's face, as sweet as his voice. "Just a simple warning, your friends are not who they think they are and we are all your enemies. Make no mistake, you are now a useful tool, and the King will use you as such, but I can promise you that if you show any sign of weakness, these Lions and this city will devour you." He turned, and spoke again, almost as an afterthought, "Do enjoy your evening."

With that he was gone, long silk robes swishing about his ankles as he hurried across the outer yard of the castle.

_The mummer,_ Nathaniel suddenly remembered. _That is what they call him._

**\- THE SWIFTBLADE -**

They smelled the village before they came upon it, and soon after, they began to see it. Ash raining down, covering the trees and sticking in their horses' hair.

Daeron and Halfjon had been riding for some time ahead of the King's main host. Harys stopped to eat or drink at every inn or holdfast along the way, but someone had to screen the host's advance, and a great host it was. Truly an army befitting of a King, although, as Daeron hated to admit, the King did not befit the army.

Almost all of the chivalry of the Reach was represented in some way in the Royal retinue. The Ashfords had sent out their best and bravest, both the Red and Green Apple Fossoways, even a few Meadows. Brave Lord Roxton was leading the van with his Valyrian steel sword, and whilst usually Daeron and Halfjon should have been with the King, the white Knights had known that today they would both prefer to ride with the screens.

The pair had crossed and recrossed the shining breath of the Mander as they made their way ahead of the banners, moving past hovels and villages, and making note of inns to avoid for Harys' approach.

The Umber was always a joy to ride with, jesting and making japes in the saddle, some even borderline treasonous towards he who they were sworn to protect. Daeron set his jaw to the last, but Halfjon would wink, and it was all the white Knight could do not to laugh.

But the laughter had stopped when the ash had began to fall.

Some villages in their path had been picked clean by the King's host. Foraging was as much a part of war as marching was, and men did not ride on horses alone. Corn, ale, bacon and butter were all as necessary as the swords at their hips. Daeron understood that part of war, but he did not understand this. This was not foraging.

As they walked through the falling ash, they began to see the bodies. There were hundreds of them, strung up like sausages in a butcher's shop. Some were old, bloated and beyond recognition, others were fresh, blood still red and dripping, a few were still moving, and those were the hardest to look upon. Daeron dismounted numbly, vaguely aware of Halfjon doing the same beside him. He drew his dagger and cut two of the bodies down. One, younger than the other, fell with a thud, her eyes dead and glassy. The other coughed and pushed himself up against one of the boughs, his fellows swinging like flies in a spider's web above him.

Halfjon's mouth was set as he went to the younger woman. His hand stroked her blood matted hair softly, and kneeling in the mud beside her his white cloak and armor looked almost surreal, remnants of some place that death had not yet touched.

"What happened?" the Umber asked to no one in particular. His voice was soft, but the girl shrank away from his gentle touch.

The older man spat up blood and phlegm. Where his eye had once been, a gaping red hole remained and his face seemed to cave in painfully around it.

"They came at dawn," he spluttered, looking impossibly filthy beside the Kingsguard. "Some sellswords out of the east. We didn't try to fight them, sers, but they butchered us all the same. My poor sweet Lavender... What they did- I-"

The man choked back a sob. A fit of coughing cut through him and he slumped to the dirt, red tinted vomit mixing with the ashy mud.

"They took the women- the girls- cut anyone they found to pieces. My own wife… I saw her taken by three of them before _he_ came."

"Who?" the Halfjon asked.

"The bloody beast," the man said in a hoarse whisper. "A Tyroshi taller than any man I've known. He's still here! By the gods, do you understand? _He's still here!_"

"Where is this beast?" Halfjon asked in a low, dark tone. "Where are these men?"

A shaking hand pointed the way through the brush.

"The Sept! In the Sept."

The Northman slipped his dirk from his belt and pressed the blade to the girl's throat.

"No!" Daeron found himself saying. "You can't!"

He took a stumbling half-step towards the Umber, but it was too late. The girl pushed her thin neck onto the blade and the sharpened edge of the knife cut easily into her white skin. She gasped once, choked on blood, and then, as the ruby river wet the mud, she sighed, and Daeron saw the corners of her mouth move upwards into a sad smile.

_Mother give her mercy. Father, grant her justice. _

Halfjon wiped his dirk and stood. The white knight looked to be shaking slightly, and it took him a few tries to get the blade back into its sheath.

"Come," he said finally. There was no smile in his eyes now.

The knights left the dead behind them as they wove their way through towards the smoke. Halfjon muttered beneath his breath, clutching the sword on his hip. As they emerged to the side of a smoldering field, Daeron stopped.

"That was ill done back there."

The Umber stopped too, keeping his back to the other knight.

"It was necessary. The girl's life was over."

"No," Daeron said, sounding younger than his years. "She was alive."

The white knight sighed, rubbing his eyes, and turned to the younger man.

"What those beasts did to her," he began. "Her life was over-"

"No," Daeron said more surely. "She was alive. The Mother gave her mercy. So long as she was alive, she would have had a chance to find happiness. You had no right to help her foreswear that chance."

Halfjon's shoulders slumped and he turned back towards the smoke.

"You're a good man, Swiftblade. Far too good for our King. I hope you get to serve one worthy of you some day."

The acrid smell of death and the ugly shouts and jeers of men met them as they crept from the smoking field. The village was a blackened ruin, houses ripped apart and bodies lining the muddy road.

With a gesture, Halfjon directed Daeron behind a blackened stable. Flies buzzed on the charred wood, crawling into the cracks of the boards. Daeron could not imagine what would have brought them in such numbers. His hands were shaking, and as they rounded the corner, he felt something beneath his boot. When he looked down it was all he could do not to cry out. A tiny hand lay amongst the blood and mud, cut off at the elbow.

Daeron felt bile burn acrid at the back of his throat. This hell, it was all too much.

Halfjon shook him out of his delirium with a touch on the shoulder. Daeron wheeled around to see the white knight pointing past a crop of houses. A group of brightly colored sellswords laughed and jested as they saddled sleek, dark steeds. Beside them, a huge bonfire blazed. It took a moment for Daeron to realize what was burning.

His stomach churned violently.

_I can't even tell what is man and what isn't._

The sellswords turned as a guttural shout rang out behind them. From the Sept's doorway was stepping the largest man Daeron had ever seen, seven feet tall at the least, taller even than the Umber crouching beside him. The giant of a man dragged a bloodied woman by her sandy brown hair down the Sept's steps, laughing all the way to the bonfire. His visage was like that of some demon, facial hair dyed blue and red with gold wired into it. Around his thick shoulders, he wore a sash of pale cloth, marked with deep crimson stains.

Umber rose with a roar as he heard the girl scream. He crossed into the road, facing the pack. Some of the sellswords turned towards the sound, but most had eyes only for the woman. Their laughter was cruel and Daeron watched as Halfjon strode towards them.

"I am Ser Jon Umber of King Harys Baratheon's Kingsguard!" he shouted, "And you will unhand that girl."

He had their attention now. One of the men on the horses raised a crossbow, but the giant gave a grunt and he lowered it again.

"You know which one I am?" The Tyroshi shouted, grinning like the beast the man had named him. He dropped the girl to pull out a curved blade from the sheath at his back. In his off hand he held a wicked-looking short blade, jagged and covered in dried blood. "Because they'll have to write that the _Maidensblood_ killed you in your pretty white book."

Halfjon stopped about six feet from the man, the Umber with his greatsword and the foreign monster with his cruel eastern steel. A sharp wind blew through the town, choking the air with ash and sending skeleton leaves tumbling between the combatants, and for what seemed like an eternity, the pair simply waited.

_Kill him, Jon,_ Daeron urged, and Halfjon attacked.

It began with a clash of steel as the Umber forced himself forward. The foreigner leapt back, deflecting the first blow and dodging the second slash only barely. Daeron's heart soared as he saw it. Halfjon was one of the greatest knights in the realm and this dog from Essos had no chance.

Umber's third came up, but again the sellsword danced away, almost staggering.

_Is he drunk? _Daeron thought. _What a fool to challenge a knight of the Kingsguard when in his cups. _

Too late however, the Reachman saw the blade. Maidensblood had danced around the strokes, and placed himself on the offhand. With almost casual ease, he drove the curved steel into Halfjon's left shoulder, cutting the mail between the steel. The blade lodged and as Halfjon came round, the sellsword let it slip from his hands.

"_Jon!_" Daeron barely recognized his own shout as he drew his sword and ran out towards the fray. The Tyroshi half turned his head at the noise and gave a nod to his companions.

Daeron saw the Umber's eyes go wide behind his visor, then he felt a hammer blow catch him in his lower torso. The blow knocked the wind from him and he felt white pain erupt where he had been struck, forcing him to his knees. Swiftblade looked down and saw the quarrel of a crossbow bolt, punched straight through his breastplate.

Somewhere far away, Halfjon gave a rabid cry and leapt at Maidensblood once more. A deft melee ensued, and Daeron saw just how fast the monster was. Maidensblood moved fluidly and entirely without restraint. He parried with the offhand, and when he saw an opening in the furious strokes of the Umber, he stuck his blade straight into the man's side.

Daeron cried out, tried to stagger to his feet once more, and fell when a bowstring snapped and a barbed arrow pierced his leg. He gave into the pain then, falling to his side, trying to think of prayers, but none came. All that was real was the six inches of ash and steel in his gut and his leg.

Halfjon broke off from the Tyroshi, coming closer to Daeron now. The Reachman tried to summon words, tried to tell Jon to run, but it was no good. The sellsword came after, blocking the Umber's last strike with a steel gauntlet, batting it away with ease. The giant pulled his lodged blade from the Umber's shoulder and dealt the Northman a crippling blow.

Ser Halfjon Umber fell into the mud in front of Daeron. He struggled on his back, the white of his cloak stained with blood and mud. The Maidensblood laughed, all teeth and black gums.

"You white knights," he rasped. "Your time is almost over. We took your Morning Sword at Stonehelm, and even now the Lion comes to smash your King to pieces. We will meet him at the Kingswood and leave his body for the crows."

A sellsword led one of their horses to the Tyroshi, and the man swung into the saddle, sheathing his blades.

Daeron pushed himself up, ignoring the complaints of his body.

"Die knowing you did nothing," the Essosi said, giving his horse a smack. "After the battle, I shall take your King's head for my own tankard, and I shall drink to you two noble Sers, who served yourselves up on a plate to me."

He gave a shout in bastard Valyrian for his men, and the troop rode, kicking up dust and ash behind their hooves. Daeron pulled Halfjon into his arms, feeling for the wound, but the Northman pushed his hands away.

"You heard him," he said, through mouthfuls of blood. "The rebel draws near. The King must be warned."

"We will warn him together," Daeron said, trying to pull his friend to a stand.

"No," the Umber replied, pushing Daeron away with his remaining strength. "I will slow us down. You can still make it in time."

"I can't-"

"_You swore an oath!_" Halfjon bellowed. "You swore an oath to defend and protect your King! Not me!"

He rolled to his side and his eyes met the younger man's.

"You are a good man, Daeron. But duty calls." He slumped back again. "_Fuck!" _Jon shouted in agony. "I hope you live to see another King. Ours is not worthy of one inch of you."

Daeron reached the camp at nightfall, though he could not remember how. The countryside he passed, he saw through blurred vision. At first he thought he was dying, ever so slowly in the saddle, but then he realized that what clouded his sight were tears.

The blood around the quarrel in his abdomen was black when he arrived, and flies played at the wound. The camp was dark, far darker than it had been. Daeron was glumly surprised, it seemed as though the King was not feasting.

The Royal Pavilion was guarded by Ser Jaime Florent, the Gold Fox. As Daeron dismounted, the Lord Commander rushed to his side. Daeron fell then, feeling inky black tendrils at the corners of his eyes. The Stranger was close, but he had a duty.

He had sworn a vow.

"The King," he murmured as the Lord Commander clutched his shoulder. "I have to tell the King. To warn-"

"To warn him of what?" Jaime asked. "The King is busy and you are in no shape."

But Daeron was away. He staggered towards the tent, not hearing.

"The King's son has been flayed by the Velaryon," Jaime went on, as Daeron pushed through the felt. "The letter arrived from Highgarden this morning. He is in no mood to speak-"

"_CRAVENS_!" came the bellow from further inside. "_TRAITORS! USURPERS!_"

It seemed that the King was in a mood to shout.

"I will smash them myself!" Harys yelled to his council. He was sat upon a wide backed chair in his full armor, with a squire tentatively attempting to take parts off. Lord Baelor looked put upon, Lord Roxton merely looked bored.

"This Lion who would be King... let him come claim his crown from my cold, dead hands. I will not bend the knee and wait for his headsman to take me. Damn Rickon!"

"But Maude and Mellara are captive too," Baelor pleaded. "Please, we have to-"

"_WE DO NOT HAVE TO DO ANYTHING!_" Harys shouted, standing and pushing his bearded face level with Baelor's own. "That is what it means to be King! Other people have to do things! I do not!"

Baelor shrank back into the assembled Lords and Daeron staggered forward.

Harys raised his eyes to the Reachman as he came into the light.

"Good gods, Swiftblade," he murmured. "I had put you down as dead. You and the Umber, too."

He pulled from a horn that his squire handed and ignored the Kingsguard.

"There is…" Daeron began, almost inaudibly. The tent was swimming before him. "I have-"

"Out with it, Ser! Or out with you," the King complained. "I am busy."

"The Halfjon is dead, and he-" Swiftblade clutched at an armor stand as he felt his legs fail. Blackness began to dim his sight as he tried to stay standing.

"Is that all you've come to say?" The King snorted. "My son is flayed by some foreign bastard and you come before me stinking of shit and piss and blood and tell me that a Knight is dead? _THAT IS WHAT KNIGHTS DO!_" he bellowed, and Daeron finally fell with a thunk to the floor.

As Swiftblade felt the Stranger's touch, cold and wet, he thought on Jon's words.

_A King worthy of service._

**\- ARTOS -**

As it did every morning in this dreary keep, a brigade of light, ice blue marched in file through the open window. It stationed itself about the small quarters, unveiling the room's chips and cracks, markings of age it could hide only in the darkness of the night. The ice light also found its way to the great sword. Its steel sparkled and shone as rainbows refracted from its surface, and they danced with the blade as it shifted, ever so slightly, with each stroke of Artos' whetstone.

It was an elegant blade, and lengthy, from hilt to tip only just a head shorter than its owner. It was thin like Artos, too, and for a two handed blade it was light - good for a man who was far more height than muscle.

_"You care for her, Harclay, you care for her every morn. Keep her sharp and she'll keep you safe."_

Ever since arriving on the Wall, more often than not, those were the words that echoed in Artos' thoughts. Lord Dustin had loved to teach and to share lordly advice. His counsel was growled through the man's thick beard that moved and bent with each word, and it was given kindly, through smiling eyes, creased and brown. In truth, the man had been more a father to him than his true parent ever was. The Lord Harclay was wild and loud, tall and wide, a mess of hair and stink and fight. If Artos was a shadowcat under the moon, quiet and distant, "The Donnell" was a bear, wrestling it from its lofty seat, eating it and lifting his leg to mark it as his.

_I must have been such a disappointment,_ Artos mused, _a babe born with skin of bone and eyes pink as raw flesh, a son that grew thin and gaunt, that hugged and kissed beasts instead of hunting them… a skinchanger._

The day his mother saw his eyes slip was the last day he felt at home in the Northern Mountains. She had shrieked with such fear at the blankness that his face bore, thinking him dead. He was in Night when she found out, before Night had a name, he was hunting or stalking and he swore he remembered hearing a howl at the darkness, he swore that was his mother.

"_A curse"_, she called it, _"The Old Gods' wrath for the unnaturalness of my color, of my arrogance to wear a weirwood upon my face."_

He slid the whetstone down, smooth and firm upon the Lord Dustin's gift. A smile worked its way onto hollow, pale lips.

It was a good sword.

Artos made his way across the castle yard when he had finished sharpening the blade, to the lift with the rest of the men and boys in his shift. The winch creaked and groaned, icicles wrestling themselves free from the chain as it wound tighter and tighter around its enormous spool, carrying its human cargo to the top of the Wall.

The winds always shouted up here, an angry, violent roar pitched both low and high and full of rage. It seemed their fury swelled at the hubris of any man who dared stand with his face toward them. Not even birds shared in these heights. The skies and the views below were the winds' and the weather's alone and that was simply the ways of it.

Artos had always liked the top the Wall, the coldness of the skies upon his face, and the screams and howls of winter that blew past him. They reminded him of his eagle dreams, where the winds were always loud and fast and cold and the ground was always small. That was what he liked most - the tininess of each tree. Each a dot, a speck weaved into a mural, a painting of the hugeness of a forest that ran into the winter lands. From the Wall, the haunted forest was cold and dead with ice and snow, but as much as that was true, it felt alive, breathing with trees and beasts and ghosts. It was an eerie place.

Like a countless array of black brothers, Northern men, Lords, Ladies, Kings and Queens had done before him, Artos stood upon the great ice Wall and watched.

They had no true name, they had no lord, they were the lands north of the North. The forest was a sea of green, rippling with the winds and sparkling as the sun's light bounced skyward, reflected upon the melting snow. He thought of home again, about a bear of a father and a brother with flaming hair, about an old man in a barrow, smiling through wrinkled eyes and about a honey-haired maiden, pretty and cold as ice.

They were once the pillars of his world, the lords of his dreams and his fears and all that he knew defined him. But those pillars were not nearly as high as this Wall and all he was now was a pale ghost, held up by a cat, a storm and a dragon. Night could not bend to the Night's Watch, not forever, the cat would fight and scratch and kill to break the shackles of the black oath. But the Gods wanted him here, amongst them, amongst their trees and their beasts and their wilds.

He turned from the haunted forest, whose leaves twisted with queer shades of green and brown and sometimes even red. He turned to the other side of the frozen plateau, to where another forest stretched. To lands with names, lords, histories, words and summers, to where a castle snuggled in the shadow of a blue beast. Far below, Castle Black rose like an ant hill, tiny against the vastness of cold and snow, with tiny little ants scurrying about, seeing to their tiny little concerns.

_The Wall once had seventeen of the castles manned, with over ten thousand men-at-arms standing vigilant between them,_ Artos remembered his maester once telling him. _What a sight that must have been; great towers and castles, bustling with life and pride, safe under banners of night._

Artos had read of some of them, of the second seat of the Lord Commander at Shadow Tower, tall and proud, of Queensgate, which had once glowed with the majesty of dragonfire and now stood cold and frozen, preserved in isolation for entire centuries, and of the Nightfort, home to a king of ice and night and then, millennia later, a king of fire and day who would go on to sit the iron throne.

Artos looked down at Castle Back as it twinkled with light, sharp and jagged, reflected from frozen rain. One of seventeen, scattered along the immensity of the wall.

The Watch needed a great many things - it needed men, it needed gold, it needed more castles protecting it, but Artos couldn't help but feel that the Watch might even need him too, someone to stop the nobles' chatter of Dragons and Lions and to instead talk about ice, and the dangers of the night.

The Gods needed him here.

_For who better to talk about the night, than the Moon?_

**\- THADDIUS -**

"I want to pick flowers," Aeslyn announced, leaning her head against Damon's shoulder and looping her arm through his. He was trying to write something but she was making it rather difficult with her constant caresses and kisses, and the way she rubbed his leg beneath the table, seated there beside him on the bench.

Thaddius stood grinding his teeth. _This is a solar, not your damned bedchamber._

He hated watching the two of them. He loathed his White Cloak to begin with, but despised it even more when it was his own brother he was forced to guard. And Aeslyn, seeing her with him…

He groped for the pommel of his sword and squeezed it, as if something in the cold steel could bring him solace, but the sight of Aeslyn with her long blonde tresses and her soft violet eyes only brought him grief. _She gives her favor to me and her maidenhead to my brother. _

"So go pick flowers," Damon told the Queen impatiently. "I can't write with you hanging on me, anyway."

"But I want to pick them with _you._"

Damon set the quill down and turned to her in exasperation. "We've been over this, Aeslyn. I've got more important things to do than wander the gardens with you, plucking daisies and moonblooms and writing you poems. Randyll Frey is still captive at Harrenhal and Lord Baelish won't speak to me."

Aeslyn brought her lips into the perfect pout. "I never said anything about poems, Damon, and _violets_ are my favorite flower… _We've been over this._" She used his own words mockingly, and then broke into a whine. "Why don't you listen to me? You never listen to me. I swear it's as though I'm talking to a wall sometimes, the way you just sit there, staring into your cup unblinking."

Thaddius couldn't help but feel smug at the chastisement, and smiled when Aeslyn snatched his brother's chalice from his hand before Damon could bring it to his mouth. "Why are you always drinking when you're with me?" she demanded, holding it high above his head.

"The wine makes what you have to say more interesting."

She did not find the remark amusing. "You've been avoiding me, Damon," she said firmly. "Don't think I don't realize it. You never came to bed last night. Where were you? What were you doing? Who were you with?"

Damon rose suddenly. "In a brothel, being serviced by over a dozen women. Do you want me to recite their names? I couldn't possibly remember them all, because I was drunk, like I always am. Does that make you happy, to hear what you've already decided the truth was? I hope so, because you are leaving this room and I want my wife to leave a happy woman."

Aeslyn sat glowering up at Damon and for a moment Thaddius wondered which of the two he would defend if she pulled a dagger from her bodice. But the Queen simply stood, her bottom lip beginning to quiver, and set the cup of wine back on the desk before gathering her skirts and marching for the door. Tears were streaming down Aeslyn's face by the time she reached the threshold, and she slammed the door behind her when she left.

Damon collapsed back onto the bench as the sounds of her sobbing faded, and Thaddius watched as his brother finished his wine. _I would never speak to her thusly, _he decided, feeling his jaw clench.

"You aren't kind to her," he said quietly from his place against the wall.

Damon looked up at that, as though he'd only now remembered Thaddius was present at all. "Me? Not kind to _her?_ I'm only ever with her when it cannot be avoided. Her caprices make my life impossible." He set down the cup and put his head in his hands. "She's found all my hiding spots," he mumbled through his fingers. "There's no escaping her anymore. I knew this would happen, I knew it. Marriage is everything I feared it was."

_I'll never know,_ Thaddius thought bitterly. _I'll never know marriage, happy or not. But, gods willing, I'll never know such levels of self pity, either._

"You know, you didn't used to be so miserable all the time, Damon," he remarked, perhaps too dryly, for the look on his brother's face seemed to indicate he was offended. "In fact you used to be quite pleasant company, always laughing and smiling and making-"

"I didn't have this stupid crown, then!" Damon interrupted, taking it from his brow and slamming it down onto the desk. "I didn't have Aeslyn weeping and moaning at me all the time, or Father breathing down my neck, or King Harys plotting my murder or Lord Baelor attacking the Westerlands, or- or any of _this!_" He gestured around the solar unhappily.

The room was hardly recognizable from its Baratheon days. The window dressings were now red and gold, the rugs as well, and new tapestries adorned the walls. Gone were images of hunts and stormy seas and in their place were rolling mountains and tranquil coasts. Even the furniture and fixtures were different. All that remained unchanged were the potted cinnamon ferns in each corner, their vases dark cobalt, their lips rimmed with gold.

_The ferns and a man with a crown telling me what to do - that's what hasn't changed._

"You're not the only one who's stuck playing some role for Father that you never wanted," Thaddius spat back. "But I suppose asking Damon Lannister to notice the plight of someone other than himself is like asking for water in the Red Dunes of Dorne. You complain about your wife moaning, but it's _you_ I hear whining."

"What's this, Thad?" challenged Damon, glaring at him from across the room. "Have you finally found your manhood now that the one woman you would have given it to has attached herself to mine? Are you going to be angry with me forever over something I had _no_ control over? If you've a complaint with my marriage, take it up with King Loren, or else continue to stand outside my bedchamber door and listen to my wife and I _moan._"

_I'll show you anger,_ Thaddius thought. _I'll show you rage._

Fists clenched at his sides, he stormed across the room and Damon rose to face him, but the door opened before Thaddius reached the desk. He spun towards the sound of creaking wood, hand instantly on the hilt of his sword, but his arm relaxed when Loren Lannister crossed the threshold.

Loren looked as though carved from stone, before his sons. He dressed in a tunic as red as sundown, trimmed with gold thread. Behind his cold green eyes, it was as though strange machinery was turning; plots, plans, conspiracies old and new.

Their father looked at Damon, and then the golden circlet resting atop the desk before him.

"Has the crown gotten too heavy for you, Damon? You seem to have no difficulty lifting your wine cup." He nodded at the chalice on the table, and never had green eyes looked so icy.

Damon met their father's stare angrily but returned the diadem to his head obediently without a word.

"The Stark boy has arrived in the capital," Loren continued. "Pull yourself together."

He turned to go, giving Thaddius a quick glance and the smallest of nods before departing through the doors.

_A nod. That's it. That is all I'm worth to him these days. A nod from my father and insults from my brother._

Damon began his complaining as soon as the door was closed, their fight seemingly forgotten. "Pull yourself together," he repeated. "He'd be drinking, too, if he had to deal with a man like himself. Could Gerion Lannister have truly been as awful as everyone says he was? It seems to be the only explanation for our own father." He snorted. "The Stark boy. And what does our Lord Hand want me to do about that? Go greet him? I'd rather pick daisies and moonblooms."

"Violets," Thaddius murmured.

"What's that?"

"Nothing." Thaddius shook his head, awakening from his trance. "I will greet the Stark," he said definitively. "I am the Lord Commander of your Kingsguard. It is only fitting that a Lord Paramount be welcomed by a member of the Small Council, no matter the relations between our houses."

He strode for the door before his brother could come up with some sort of protest.

"Well… Send Ser Ryman in on your way out, will you?" Damon called after him. "Someone has to make sure I don't leap out the window when Aeslyn inevitably returns."

Thaddius strode down the deserted corridor, steep footsteps echoing off the stone walls. Cold steel, cold stone, a cold castle. _Why did I choose this? How did it happen? Why did no one stop me from making such a terrible mistake?_

"_Thaddius._"

The whisper caught him off guard, and he spun round in search of its source, but saw only empty hallway stretching behind him, decorated occasionally by a hollow suit of armor or a velvet tapestry.

"Who goes there?" he spoke, gripping the hilt of the dagger he kept on his belt.

"Thaddius, it's me!"

A hand grabbed him by the elbow and tugged, yanking him back into an arched indentation in the wall, a cove shrouded in darkness and occupied by one of the metal men, empty armor clutching a dull axe.

Thaddius wrenched free and drew the dagger at once, forcing his attacker back against the wall and pressing the blade to his throat. The empty suit of armor rattled when he bumped it, the only sound in the corridor. He found himself staring into a familiar pair of blue eyes, wide now with fear.

"Stark." Thaddius frowned in surprise at the man he held pinned against the wall.

"Lannister." Jojen took a deep breath, then glanced at the blade pressed to his throat. Could you…"

"Oh." Thaddius released the tension in his arm, letting the dagger fall away. "What are you doing here?" he asked, immediately feeling stupid for doing so. _He's here for the war, idiot. And if Father had his way, he'd never return to Winterfell again._

Jojen rubbed his neck and straightened the collar of his doublet. It was grey wool with unpolished buttons, plain and unornamented but for the white Direwolf sewn onto the breast. Before meeting Jojen, Thaddius hadn't seen such drab wear since his time on the Iron Islands.

"In King's Landing? I'm here to fight your brother's war."

Thaddius scoffed at that. "My father's war, you mean."

"Whoever's war, the North is yours," Jojen said. He swallowed nervously. "As for why I'm _here_, lurking in the shadows like some sort of assassin… I wanted to see you." His cheeks turned nearly as red as his hair, and Thaddius blinked in confusion.

"Me? No, Stark, listen… that night-"

"Don't say it," Jojen interrupted, shaking his head. "Don't say that it was a mistake. You know that isn't true. You've thought about me, I know you have."

"I'm in love with a woman, Jojen," Thaddius said firmly. "I'm in love with Aeslyn Targaryen."

Jojen scrunched up his face in confusion. "The Queen? She's married."

"I know she's married!" Thaddius didn't even realize he'd pinned Jojen against the wall again, slamming his steel vambrace against his chest, until he saw the startled look on the new Lord's face.

"Thad, I didn't-"

"Don't call me that!"

_How dare he! He doesn't know me. He doesn't know who I am. He has no right._

"Alright…" Jojen raised his hands slowly in surrender, still shoved against the wall beneath the weight of Thaddius' armored arm. "What should I call you?"

"Ser Thaddius," came the reply.

"Alright, Ser Thaddius. Could you, again…" Jojen relaxed somewhat as Thaddius took his arm away, his own face now burning.

"They wanted to put you in the van," he blurted out. "So that the Arryns would get Winterfell and the North if you died."

Jojen frowned in confusion. "What? That doesn't… That doesn't make any sense, what about Symeon?"

Thaddius snorted. "Don't be ridiculous, Symeon is blind." He hesitated for a moment. "I… I told them not to."

"Why would you do that?"

_Why did I do that?_

"It doesn't matter why I did it, I don't have to explain myself to the likes of you. We shouldn't even be speaking." He turned sharply and went to leave, but Jojen took hold of his elbow. Thaddius pulled free. "Don't touch me!" he hissed, and Jojen seemed to shrink away from the words. "You're here to fight my father's war, remember? Aren't there duties for you to attend to?"

"I don't want to fight your father's war," Jojen whispered. "I want _you_."

Thaddius glared at the Stark. "Well the feeling _isn't_ mutual," he snapped. Before Jojen could say another word he turned on his heels and stalked away.

**\- ALANNYS -**

Harlaw was the second largest island in the kingdom of the Iron Islands, and the wealthiest. It was just a day's sail from Pyke, and Alannys Greyjoy had made the journey numerous times in the last several months.

She disembarked with her ironborn, about two dozen men and women sworn to House Greyjoy, and her son Aeron. Harlaw was famous for its shaggy ponies, and she counted twice as many of them as she had men on the short journey to Ten Towers, one of five keeps on the island. Her bow was on her back, her axe was on her hip and her wet brown hair clung to her face when the wind blew.

She rode silently, ignoring the chatter of the swords behind her. Alannys was never one for idle chit chat. The lines on her aging face were deep from decades of scowling and frowning, and even when passive she had the appearance of being severely displeased. Her sour disposition did little to ruin the mood of the men and women behind her, however, as the day was far too fine for them to be unhappy. A warm spring breeze was blowing in off the coast and the sun was shining down on the party, drying their wet leathers and filthy tunics.

"That one, there!" one of the men pointed to a pony in the distance.

"Where would you like it?" A woman's voice replied gaily.

"Right in the arse! Twenty silver stags say you miss, Gwin!"

After a sudden _thwang,_ a pony in the distance whinnied and reared before bolting, a feathered arrow in its rump.

The men and women laughed and a few applauded.

"Unbelievable!" the man shouted angrily.

The woman only laughed, "I'll add it to your tab, Harlon!"

Alannys ignored the games. She thought instead of the mission ahead of her. When Lord Durran Harlaw died at the age of twenty seven, he left no children behind. Her son installed a cousin as the Lord of Ten Towers, one who had not participated in the rebellion, at his mother's counsel. House Harlaw had also been forced to ward several children on Pyke.

Lady Greyjoy would rather have drowned the entire Harlaw line, from the elderly to the babes, but she understood the political necessity in keeping the family installed on their island. With her own kin holding the throne, instability and chaos in the realm would endanger her family, and Alannys had been paying many unscheduled visits to the island of Harlaw to ensure that the house remained tightly under her control and stayed within the new boundaries set after the end of the civil war and the death of Lord Durran.

When she reached the Ten Towers, Alannys was granted an audience with the new Lord Harlaw immediately. Baron was a hard man of near fifty, bearded and gruff. He sat across from her at the table in his solar, shifting uncomfortably beneath her sharp gaze.

"Is it true, then?" he asked her, "Your nephew holds the throne?"

"For months now, Lord Baron," she replied, her voice even. "Is news so slow to reach your island?"

Lord Baron sat back in his chair, the wood creaking, and sighed. "The Harlaws were close to the old king, the Baratheon."

"And to the Lannisters," Alannys pointed out. "Had you chosen your allegiances more wisely, your house would also be enjoying the spoils of the war."

Baron did not glare, but she could feel his shame from across the table. He had not supported Lord Durran, but he still paid the price for his cousin's betrayal.

"And my sons..." he started.

"They are doing well," Alannys answered the unfinished question, "And will continue to find Pyke to their liking so long as their father remains loyal to his liege lord and his king."

There was silence for a time before Baron Harlaw spoke again.

"Alannys, you know me. You've known me for years now," he pleaded. "You know I had nothing to do with this damned war between your husband's house and mine, nor do I care who sits the Iron Throne. Why must you punish me so? Why my oldest boys?"

"_My_ house," she corrected him. "And your lord's house."

"You know I've always cared for Merryk and Aeron-"

"_Lord_ Aeron," she interrupted.

"_Lord_ Aeron," he said, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "And Lord Commander Dagon as well. I bear nothing but love for your sons, my lady, and I bend my knee for your nephew, His Grace. There is no need for such... _extreme _measures. Your punitive taxes are already weighing heavily upon us-"

"Punitive," she cut him off. "Punitive because it is a punishment. House Harlaw is being punished for their disloyalty, and they shall continue to be punished for it until Lord Aeron Greyjoy has determined that the lesson is learned. The increased taxes you pay are replacing the ships that you destroyed-"

"I destroyed no ships, my lady, I had nothing to-"

She slammed her fist onto the table and the Lord's mouth snapped shut at once.

"Do not interrupt me when I speak, Lord Baron."

"My apologies, Ala- Lady Greyjoy." He eyes fell to the table, away from her piercing stare.

"House Harlaw is wealthy, it will suffer but it will survive," she continued. "And yes, these measures _are_ necessary, after such treasonous acts from your island and your kin. When you find yourself fantasizing again about driftwood crowns and a new seat for the Iron Islands, you will look into your empty coin purse, you will look upon your neutered army, and you will remember that I hold your sons in my hands, and I would gladly use those hands to drown every last one of them," she leaned over the table and spoke through gritted teeth, "I would hold their tiny heads beneath the water _myself._"

Baron sat silent, defeated, his gaze still averted.

"I am glad that we understand each other, Lord Baron," Lady Greyjoy said. "I look forward to our next visit." She pushed her chair back from the table and the sound of it scraping against the stone floors of the keep was deafening compared to the silence.

**\- SARELLA -**

She had only stepped from the pool minutes ago, but the beads of water that dotted her skin were already drying beneath the merciless glare of the fiery Dornish sun. Sarella lay prone on the baking stones of the courtyard, her nude bronze form dappled in sunlight. The palm trees swayed in the gentle breezes which visited the Old Palace, and the Princess had just begun to drift into a deep and tranquil sleep when a familiar voice interrupted her rest.

"Your uncle is dead."

Sarella sighed and turned her head reluctantly towards the voice, only to be greeted by the sight of worn leather boots, cracked and caked in dust and sand. She followed them up long legs in weathered cotton trousers, rolling onto her side and shielding her eyes with one tanned hand to squint up at the man they belonged to.

"Mallor," she said. "Wouldn't that be _our_ uncle?"

"Not this one." He was silhouetted against the sun. Sarella blinked as he held out the vibrant orange wrap she had discarded earlier, and its papery thin fabric stirred in a well timed breeze.

She took it and climbed to her feet slowly. "Our spears would not have made a difference," she said, covering herself.

"They'd have been slaughtered with the rest," Mallor agreed. His beard was long but washed and combed, like the dark hair that he kept even longer, just as their father had.

He followed her as she began to walk back toward the shade of the palace.

"Where is Maron?" Sarella asked. "I haven't heard from him in ages, nor Andrey. Is Trystane still at the Tor?"

Mallor nodded. "Aye. I cannot speak for Maron, but last I heard Andrey was in Pentos, and Trystane continues to serve House Jordayne as their maester… of sorts."

"You can't be a maester without a chain," Sarella pointed out. "From what I hear, it isn't so much that he serves House Jordayne as it is that he _services_ Lady Myriah. Doesn't the Lord Jordayne ever tire of his presence?"

"It's my understanding that the three are quite close," Mallor said with a shrug. "You know how Trystane is with people. He's a hard man to dislike, and if one _does_ find himself riled up, well, Trys has a plant that can fix that." He shot Sarella a sideways grin and she smiled back.

The two reached the shelter of a cluster of palms, planted within a neat square of hedges with leaves longer than a man was tall, and Sarella paused beneath their shade and turned to face her half brother.

"I must say, I'm surprised to see _you _this side of the city walls. And seemingly bathed, too. Don't you desert creatures miss you? What brings you home?"

"I thought you might have need of me, Princess. With the Baratheon dead, the war done, and a Lannister on the throne…"

"I suppose you want to know what we'll do now," she finished his thought.

"I'm not the only one," he replied. "I've heard talk of independence, but I confess that the arguments against it are rather convincing."

"I know it," she said. "But I have a plan." Mallor raised an eyebrow. "And I _do_ need your help." She studied his reaction carefully, keeping the smile on her face. Her brothers may have been her blood, but that did not make them immune to her charms.

"I need you to go to King's Landing," she said, "and meet with Varyo Velaryon."

"Velaryon?" Mallor frowned. "The man who flayed your cousin Rickon? The whole realm knows about that. Why would you want me to meet with him?" He glanced around, but the gardens were practically empty, with the exception of a few guards posted some distance away. "Do you mean for me to kill him?"

"No, I mean for you to offer him a deal."

"What kind of deal can one make with a child flayer and a Kingslayer?" He placed a calloused hand on her shoulder and met her gaze worriedly. "Sarella, are you sure you know what you are doing?"

"The war is over, Mallor," she told him. "The Lion has won. Now he will divide the spoils of his victory amongst those who helped him ascend. A Lannister _always_ pays his debts." She placed her hand atop his and smiled. "Our father squandered Dorne's chance to rise to new heights. This new monarch owes us nothing, but if we were to crown another… And one with a better claim..."

Mallor frowned in confusion. "Who has a better claim? The Baratheons are all dead, and a Targaryen already wears a crown."

"There are other Targaryens."

"The Black Orchid? No one has heard from him since the sack. He could be anywhere. How could you possibly hope to track down the man?"

Sarella smiled. "My dear brother… Who said anything about a man?"

Anders was waiting for her when she entered the palace, Ellaria, too, and they fell into step beside her as she walked to her council chambers.

"A package," Anders said, passing a small chest to the Princess. Sarella looked down at the box, sanded pine with elephants and tigers carved delicately into the wood. "Brought by an envoy from Volantis," he explained.

Two spearmen opened the doors to the chamber, and Sarella found the maester and the captain of her guard already waiting within. Both rose at her entrance, the maester stooped and grey, his wrinkled skin the color of a walnut shell, and Aero Allyrion, a sculpture chiseled out of stone, his face close shaven and his long dark hair tied back behind his head.

Sarella approached the table with the chest in hand. "Has the Dragon responded to our invitation?" she asked, setting it down and unfastening the golden clasps.

"She accepts," Ellaria answered, glancing hesitantly from Anders to Sarella to the chest. "And she sends this as a token of her faith."

Sarella opened the lid and stared inside, then overturned the box, letting its contents spill out onto the table. Three badges fell out, each bearing the mark of a triarch, each covered in blood.

Sarella laughed.

**\- DAMON -**

"This way, Your Grace."

A gold cloak pointed down the long corridor, and Damon obeyed, glancing up only briefly from the mess of papers in his arms as he walked.

"What is this?" he asked, frowning at the columns of numbers.

"The cost of every prisoner," Lord Arryn explained patiently, keeping pace at his side. He tapped a finger against the sheet of parchment on the top of the disorderly pile. "Every meal is priced at half a-"

"Are we _there_ yet?" the Queen interrupted, whining. Her voice was more obnoxious than hail striking a helm, and Damon felt a headache coming on. _I'm not nearly drunk enough for her pouting. _In fact, he wasn't drunk at all. It had been days since he'd lifted a wine chalice, though by no deliberate intent of his own. Meeting after meeting after meeting had consumed Damon's waking hours, and what would have been his sleeping ones, too, if such a thing as sleep would ever come to him again for more than just a fleeting visit.

Aeslyn pulled on his arm and Nathaniel caught the paper as he dropped it, returning it to Damon while the Queen went on. "Darling, my legs ache. I don't want to go. I loathe the sight of blood, it makes me feel faint."

"Then close your eyes." Damon tried to reorder the notes, but they were a wrinkled mess after he'd dozed off on them sometime the night before and it was hard to tell which went where. "And anyway, women see far more blood than men."

Aeslyn pouted at that, too, but she at least kept her lips closed.

"Half a groat," Nathaniel said. "Highborn prisoners, of course, are costlier, at six-"

"Damon, do we _have_ to attend? We are the King and Queen. No one can make us do anything we don't want to. I don't _want _to see the trial. Two men stabbing each other to death is not my preferred way to spend an afternoon. You told me we could go to the gardens. You promised."

"Left, Your Grace."

Another gold cloak waiting at the end of the corridor pointed, and the party continued on. Behind him Damon could hear the heavy clinking of Ser Ryman's armor, along with the softer footsteps of Ser Quentyn of Tarth. The latter had joined the ranks of the Kingsguard only recently, sometime after the Battle of Stonehelm. He wasn't much older than Damon, and still carried himself with the swagger of youth - a far cry from the older Sunglass knight, whose hulking presence was always a solemn one.

"Six pennies or a star for those," Nathaniel was saying. "At the Eyrie, we cut the cost of prisoners in half by restructuring meals. I've written my suggestions on the third paper - no, the one underneath that. Yes, that one, there."

"Right, Your Grace."

Damon fumbled with the parchment as they made yet another turn.

"Who is the Dayne fighting?" Aeslyn asked. "I don't want to see him die. He seems like a kind man..."

"He's not going to die, Aeslyn." Damon sighed, reading the list of Lord Arryn's advices. _From three meals a day to two, porridge with no bread…_ "I agreed to release him back to the Princess. This trial is just for show, so that I don't look concessive before the realm. He's the Lord of Starfall, he'll make quick work of whatever unfortunate foot soldier is placed before him." _Rushes changed twice instead of thrice weekly, an increased number of men sent to the Wall…_

"Foot soldier?" Nathaniel asked, confused. "Varyo Velaryon chose the Maidensblood, one of his sellsword Captains."

"Varyo?" Damon asked, looking up. "Why was _Varyo_ charged with selecting the crown's champion?"

"He's the King's Justice, Your Grace."

"Since when?"

"Since… Since you chose him. Your father said that you…" Nathaniel trailed off, seeming to realize what had occurred at precisely the same moment Damon did. It was difficult to say who was more embarrassed by it.

_My father_. _How many of his decisions has he claimed were mine?_

Before either man could speak they arrived at the doors to the royal box, from which the King, Queen, small council, and their retinues would watch the trial. Two more soldiers in gold cloaks opened them, and at once they were outdoors, beneath an awning of red silk.

"It's too hot," Aeslyn complained. "Where are my handmaidens? I need a fan."

The girls nearly barreled over each other in their rush to reach the Queen, and Damon took the opportunity to slink away from his wife, heading for the balcony rail instead of the two seats that awaited them on the raised platform.

Below was the arena, small compared to the one Damon knew from Casterly Rock. It was stone of a sandy color, whose newly painted emblem was already faded from the baking sun. The sigil was in the center, a giant circle with one half black and the other red, a golden lion on the crimson field and a bloody three headed dragon against the darker half, back to back, their tails entwined.

The stadium seating wrapped around half of the ring, and the Blackwater Bay formed the backdrop of the opposing side, a deep metallic blue and still as stone. Its surface was a looking glass that reflected the sun, and made Damon think of home and the bay of Lannisport that he would likely never see again. To the right was a tent of purple, beneath which Martyn Dayne was securing his armor while a squire sharpened his spear. To the left was another, shading the man who could only have been Maidensblood.

The Tyroshi captain was a monster. Damon guessed his height at around seven feet, and he could make out a pair of piercing blue eyes, the same color as the captain's hair, and a red beard with gold rings in it. Maidensblood was clad in leather and steel, and spun a curved blade in his right hand with a grace any bravo would envy.

Damon felt his stomach tighten in worry. _Oh, gods, this isn't going to go the way we'd planned… _He went to lean against it the rail when a familiar voice spoke.

"Stand up straight. You're a king, not a commoner."

"Father." Damon gave Loren a quick glance before looking back out over the pit below, straightening with reluctance.

"You're late."

"It wasn't my fault this time, if you would believe it." Damon rested his hands on the balustrade, twisting a ring on his finger nervously. "Her Grace couldn't decide on which jewelry she wanted to wear."

He could hear Aeslyn laughing behind him, giggling at some private joke shared with her handmaidens, and he tensed. "She's with child," he reported.

"Good," was all Loren had to say on the matter, and Damon blurted out his next words quickly, before he could think better of it.

"Varyo Velaryon should not be the King's Justice."

Loren seemed taken aback by the opinion, though the only evidence of such was the pregnant pause that came before his reply. Ever the embodiment of composure, Damon had learned the small clues to his father's true feelings only from a lifetime of watching for them. "That is not your decision to make," the Lannister said.

"Aren't I the king?"

"You are. And the king cannot bother himself with every petty decision the crown requires, which is why he has his small council, and his _Hand_, to share the burden of those choices."

Damon looked to him at last. "That is hardly a petty decision, the King's Justice is-"

"_ARE YOU READY TO DIE, PALE MAN?_" The booming voice of the Tyroshi Captain drew all eyes and ears to the arena, where he swaggered towards the center of the ring.

Martyn glanced over only briefly before continuing to take his time with his armor. A septon waddled hurriedly towards the painted crest, holding his arms up.

"This trial shall begin with the Seven's blessings!" he cried out, addressing the crowd. "By the grace of the Warrior, the Crone-"

"Fuck off, holy man!" Maidensblood spat onto the ground, and then pointed his sword at the royal box. "There's the King! That means it's time for me to kill that one!" He turned then and aimed the blade at Martyn, who accepted the spear from the squire and began to saunter slowly into the ring, rolling his shoulders.

The crowd began to cheer as the septon scurried out of the way.

_This whole damn city is so thirsty for blood._

"Sit," Loren said, but Damon shook his head.

"No. I'm going to watch from here."

The Dornishman and the Tyroshi began to circle each other as Loren left his side. While Martyn kept his eyes locked on his opponent, Maidensblood often turned to face the crowd, lapping up their adoration each time he raised his arahk to elicit another roar.

"After you are dead, pale man, I'm gonna use your hands to pleasure my whore," he told Martyn. "You're lucky, how many dead men get cunt?"

The Dayne said nothing, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck.

Damon's grip on the rail tightened when Maidensblood charged with a speed shocking for a man of his size. Martyn was surprised, too, barely managing to stumble out of the way of the arahk's arc as the Captain swung it wide. He blocked the second blow with the pole of his spear, but when he moved to drive its butt into the Tyroshi's legs the man leapt over it with the gracefulness of a stag, his arahk a flash of steel as the third attack drew first blood, finding a gap in the Dornishman's armor just above the elbow.

"He's fast," a new voice observed as the crowd erupted into cheers. Damon hadn't noticed Lord Arryn approach.

"Which one?" he asked.

"Well, both, I suppose," Nathaniel said, as Martyn caught two more blows before bringing his spear up towards the Tyroshi's neck. The Captain leapt back, but the point grazed his face, leaving his red beard redder.

The wound seemed to enrage the man, and all smiles and crowd pandering vanished as the Tyroshi lashed out with a vengeance, drawing a short blade from his hip and roaring his anger as he charged.

"I hope the Princess took my promise at face value," Damon said bitterly. "I told her I would return her betrothed, but I never did specify whether that was alive or dead."

Martyn jumped back, narrowly avoiding the arakh and dirk. He circled around his opponent, trying to position the sun favorably at his back, and when Maidensblood next rushed him Martyn had his spear ready.

"I do not know Sarella Martell," Nathaniel admitted, "but I know that she is young. She will have men advising her, and their wisdom will temper any decisions of hers."

"Young," Damon said. "And what do you consider to be young? I just celebrated my twenty third nameday, Lord Arryn. Is that why my Father makes _my_ decisions for me? Three and twenty hardly seems young to me."

Using the blinding sunlight to his advantage, Martyn swept his spear at the Tyroshi's legs and sent him sprawling.

Nathaniel responded hesitantly. "You are new to rule, Your Grace," he suggested delicately. "And if you ask a septon he will tell you that the Father is a shepherd." Damon glanced away from the fight only briefly to find the holy man who'd failed to announce it. He was standing safely behind the low brick wall that wrapped about the arena, one hand on his round belly and the other holding a wineskin to his lips.

As quickly as the Captain had fallen, he was back on his feet, swinging and slashing with both his swords, forcing the Dornishman back. Damon could hear the ringing of steel and the sound of Martyn's boots scraping the stone as he stepped backwards.

Then, an opening. Martyn dipped his spear low, hoping to attack his opponents legs again, but leaving his face exposed. Instead of his blade, however, Maidensblood drove his elbow hard into the Dayne's face, and Martyn staggered, nearly dropping his spear as blood spurted from his nose. Damon had forgotten for a few sweet moments that Aeslyn was present at all, but her gasp reminded him.

"They told me you were good!" Maidensblood taunted. "I've had more of a battle from squalling whores, and I don't even get to fuck you afterwards. Give me a real fight, boy!"

He hardly gave time to recover. The Tyroshi charged and began the dance again.

"My father isn't the only one who seems to think I require shepherding," Damon said, watching the fight intensely. "'Cub,' I hear they call me, though I suppose that's hardly the worst of what they whisper."

Nathaniel didn't seem to know what to say to that, so he fell silent as the Tyroshi lunged for his prey.

The huge man let his teeth show menacingly like a snarling dog, and slashed and hacked until one lucky blow caught the Dornishman at the waist. The arahk cut from hip to shoulder, slicing through the leather armor and leaving a gash that dripped crimson onto the three headed dragon beneath his feet.

Martyn clutched at the wound with one hand as Maidensblood threw up his head and laughed.

_Now, now, now!_ Damon thought, leaning over the railing anxiously, but the Dornishmen needed no help. Martyn seized the moment to drive his spear into the monster's gut.

The crowd hushed, Aeslyn moaned, and Damon held his breath.

The Tyroshi groaned like a pig in heat as the blade twisted. Blood spattered from his mouth as it opened in a grin. "That's more like it, lordling," he spat out.

His hand flew to Martyn's throat, and hairy fingers wrapped around the Dornishman's neck. The Tyroshi laughed a guttural laugh, blood gurgling up between his teeth as he lifted the Dayne off the ground until he was eye level with the monster. Martyn's spear clattered to the ground, and he grabbed the man's shoulders, mustered his strength, and then slammed his head into the giant's.

The crowd gasped as Maidensblood fell, and Martyn collapsed on top of him for half a second before rolling off, opening his arms as he lay on his back and stared up at the sun. As the Tyroshi landed, his manhood was set free from his loose tied trousers. The Captain made spasming movements for a scarce minute, then all too soon he was dead, with a grin on his face and a hard cock for all the world to see.

The crowd erupted into cheers, and the priest spilled dark red wine all down his robes when another man barreled into him in his excitement. Damon was more concerned with the commotion taking place behind him.

The Queen had fainted.

_Oh for fuck's sake…_

"A maester! Someone fetch a maester!" one of her handmaidens cried, cradling Aeslyn's head in her arms. Her flock of girls clung to her limp body like vultures on a corpse.

"Yes!" Damon agreed, turning and raising a hand authoritatively. "Fetch a maester for Lord Dayne! Before he bleeds out and we have a Dornish fucking rebellion on our hands."

He noted how Aeslyn seemed to miraculously recover at his words, her eyes opening to reveal the infamous fury he'd come to know so intimately. Damon turned away, back to the rail where Lord Arryn still stood watching the chaos in the royal box with a confused frown.

"And someone fetch me a bloody drink."

**\- ALANNYS -**

The sea was choppy. Whitecaps dotted the dark waters and waves lapped up against the sides of the boat noisily, making an eerie, hollow sound. The wind whipped Alannys' stringy hair about her face as she watched Gwin leap from the prow to the approaching dock with the easy grace of youth, covering the impressive distance between them easily.

_Foolish girl,_ she thought to herself. _Life is not some game, and the world does not exist for your amusement._

Lady Greyjoy waited until the ship was properly docked before disembarking. She was far too old for her children's nonsense and now that she was back on Pyke with the lot of them, she was dreading the inevitable slew of it.

Dagon greeted them ashore in his heavy brown tunic with the kraken of their house stitched in simple black thread. The colors were faded from wear and the leather of his boots which he had his trousers tucked into were equally worn. He had his bow slung over his back and a simple iron sword sheathed in the belt that hung loosely around his hips.

_He looks like Damron,_ Alannys thought when she saw him, _Though not as much as Aeron, or Merryk._

Dagon was more similar to his mother in personality as well, though age had not yet bestowed upon him any of her hardness or bitterness. He was shrewd and poised like Alannys, but had his father's handsome smile. He wore it now for his sister as she ran to embrace him, nearly knocking him over as she did so.

"Sister!" he exclaimed with a laugh, tousling her already mussed hair, damp from the spray of the ocean. "Did you enjoy your pleasure cruise?"

She glared at his teasing and gave him a shove. "Are you jealous you weren't invited, Dagon? Worry not, I gave Lord Baron's daughters your hellos."

"You ought to have given them your own," he grinned, "I hear the oldest is quite fair, perhaps she could have given you some advice on how to wash that mousey hair of yours. "

She went to tackle him and he broke out into a laugh as he dodged her easily. She flew instead into one of the men from the crew as the rest of the ironborn were disembarking, and the vassal pushed her back with a look of mild annoyance. A few of the Greyjoy men and women grinned at the roughhousing siblings; others ignored them completely as they made their way towards the castle in the distance.

"Cease your stupidity," Alannys muttered as she approached. "The two of you are more obnoxious than a bard at a battle, and twice as useless."

She glanced at neither of them as she passed, and Dagon fell into step behind her, giving Gwin one last shove and a frown as she tried to snatch an arrow from the quiver on his back.

"Did the Harlaws give you any trouble, mother?" he asked Alannys as he walked alongside her.

She focused on the path ahead of them, trekking up the wild and rocky road from the docks to the gates. "The day that Baron Harlaw proves too much of a challenge for me, I will relocate to the Riverlands and start planting seeds," she said through gritted teeth. "Have you done anything of note in my absence worth reporting, or will you spare me the sound of your voice?"

Unfazed by his mother's usual brusqueness, Dagon smiled at her and offered, "I cleaned out our dungeons. I have no new rebels from the Reaper's war to offer you, but I was going to head to the beach now to drown a few murderers and thieves, and a priest killer who claims to be a skinchanger, if you care to accompany us."

"I have better things to do than attend the funerals of petty criminals."

"Of course, my lady," Dagon nodded his head, still smiling, and rested his hand casually on the hilt of his sword as they reached the fork in the road. One path wound up over the gnarled landscape to the fortress of Pyke and the other to the left snaked down the sides of the cliffs towards the beaches below. "I will see you back at the castle later, then." He bowed his head in farewell before sauntering off down the eastern path towards the beaches.

"Can I go with him, mother?" Gwin asked. Her mother kept walking with her back to her daughter, and did not see Dagon stick his tongue out at Gwin over his shoulder. "I want to see them drown the priest killer. I want to see if he turns into a whale when put under water."

Alannys stopped at that, and a few of the men walking with them hesitated, unsure if they should do so as well. She turned to face Gwin with a cool anger in her steely grey eyes, and pointed a finger at the girl's chest.

"If I hear any more talk of whales or magic or _skinchanging_ from you," she said, disgust evident in her voice, "I will hold you under the waves myself and show you that the Farwynd blood in your veins does not make you any less drownable than a common man. What you hear of the people from Lonely Light are rumors and whispers, and nothing more. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my lady," Gwin answered, looking from her mother to the cliffside path, where Dagon was growing smaller and smaller. "Rumors and whispers," she repeated, "and nothing more."

**\- JAMES -**

"The Sealord's Palace is simply _magnificent_, my Queen," the Braavosi envoy proclaimed, his voice dripping with honey. "You could greet the coming Spring with Myrios on one of his many pleasure barges. Turn your beautiful eyes away from the barbarians in Westeros, and see for yourself the life that is to be made in the Veiled City, just as your ancestor Daenerys did."

James balled one hand into a fist as the man spoke, reaching up with the other to finger the hilt of his thin Braavosi blade before an elbow caught him in the ribs.

"Don't be a fool," the Grand Maester hissed into his ear, but James only scowled in return, clenching his jaw and looking back to the Queen.

She looked radiant standing atop the small raised platform in the center of the spacious solar, in a gown of pale lavender silk gifted by the merchant prince of Lys. Its straps crossed against her open back, leaving more of her pale skin exposed than James had ever seen. Sunlight streamed through the window above her head and cast its warm glow upon it. When he tore his gaze away from Danae he realized with anger that everyone else was staring at her too.

Since they arrived almost a week ago, the Targaryen had been gifted dresses and jewelry and finery, and treated to the best of what Lys could offer. And it seemed as though Lys could offer very much in the way of wealth and luxuries.

It had taken the merchant prince only one glimpse of the dragon and Danae, no doubt having already heard the whispers from Volantis, for the man to offer them stay in his sprawling manse outside the city amongst the Numysi Fields. Lys was named "the Lovely," but these days much of the Old and New City was in disrepair.

So far Danae had dined with him every night, leaving James to stand guard outside the doorway. He waited with baited breath whenever the prince asked for her hand again and exhaled in relief each time she refused him.

As the next petitioner walked forward clad in vibrant green satin, James found himself looking down at his own tunic and browned leathers, wondering if Danae liked the fanciful Essosi merchants and nobles with their shiny jewels and robes of golden silk.

"The Sealord's palace is a pile of dust compared to almost every building in Lys," argued the man of obvious Lyscene descent as he knelt and took Danae's hand into his own, bringing it to his lips. "Stay in this city. Make a home with Magister Illyrio. Lys is the only place worthy of your beauty."

"Both offers are tremendous," Danae said at last, gently removing her hand from the man's grasp. "But Westeros is my home. I will not marry in Essos."

A look of relief spread James across his face as the dejected envoys from Braavos and Lys bowed before Danae and took their leave through the great stone archway that led to a corridor lined with more just like them.

"Next, Your Grace," announced Grand Maester Orin, once in the Common Tongue and then again in High Valyrian, "is Rahak, Captain of the Windblown, come to sell his swords to your cause."

The smile on James' face disappeared as soon as he caught sight of the sellsword captain. He was a giant of a man, towering over the feminine Lyscene servants, and he strode into the room with enough confident swagger to rival the bravos James had known back home. His long, dark hair was streaked with grey at the temples and tied back behind his head, and there was a prominent scar running from above his forehead and down across his cheek. His grin was wicked, and his dark brown eyes surveyed Danae with hunger.

"A sellsword captain?" James muttered under his breath to Summer. "They're dishonest men. Danae doesn't need sellswords."

"Do you have an army hidden somewhere?" Summer whispered back with a laugh. She was always laughing. "Don't worry, James. At least we're finished with the marriage proposals."

The two were standing off to the side of their Queen, Summer with her easy smile and James agitatedly holding on to the hilt of his sword again.

_I doubt that,_ he thought, turning to look down the hallway of the merchant prince's manse and catching a glimpse of the various nobles waiting for their chance to speak.

"Dragon Queen," the Captain said. He spoke the Common Tongue poorly, his words colored with a heavy Myrish accent, and when he took a knee at Danae's feet he raked his eyes over her figure with shameless lust that outmatched even the Tyroshi from the other day. "My sword is yours."

"I was hoping for more than one," Danae replied, unfazed by his advances. "How many men can the Windblown offer?"

Rahak shot a confused glance to the Grand Maester, who quickly translated her words into Valyrian.

"I have three thousand men for you," said the Captain in his native tongue. "But mine is the only sword you will find capable of serving you in _all_ the different ways a Queen requires."

James felt the blood rush to his face, and he tightened his grip on his pommel. Summer snorted at his side.

"He said he has three thousand men, Your Grace," Orin said, offering Danae a selective translation. "Almost double the number the Captain of the Second Sons will offer you later today."

"I will take both," Danae replied. "Tell him his contract begins today."

The maester interpreted the deal back to the captain.

"Tell her I'm willing to negotiate the price," said Rahak with a sinister grin as he took a stand, towering over Danae. "In private, of course. I've been told by many women I am _greatly_ skilled with my tongue."

"How much do you pay them to tell you that?" James shot back in his own Valyrian. He was aware of Summer's hand tugging at the sleeve of his tunic and the look of surprise on Danae's face when she turned to find him making his way to her side.

"I will break you in half, boy," the Captain declared, eyeing James and roaring with laughter, "and use that little blade of yours to pick my teeth!"

Orin was quick enough to intervene, and took a step forward to block James' path. "Captain Rahak says you have a deal, Your Grace."

James fumbled for the sword at his belt, only to turn and find that Summer had snatched it from his side sometime during his rage. She offered him a shrug and a look of apology.

"Get back, you arrogant fool," hissed the Grand Maester. "You offer one blade against this man's three thousand. If you dare raise your sword to him again, I will let him have you. You are a fool to if you think she cares for your bastard name and your thin Braavosi blade."

"Enough!" Danae snapped in the Common Tongue. "What is going on?"

"James questioned the man's numbers, Your Grace," Orin lied. "But I can confirm his claims are true. All three thousand of the Windblown will sail with us to Sunspear."

"Good," said Danae. "Now tell him he may leave. It's past noon and I have at least ten more petitions today."

_Wonderful,_ James thought darkly as he watched the captain swagger out the manse's open doors, shooting Danae a wink before he disappeared. _This is going to be a long day. _

**\- THE NORTHMAN -**

The rage bubbled up within him like a hot, evil, sludge. In his youth, he'd always dealt with his emotions - be they positive or otherwise - by meleeing in the yard with his best friends, hammering away the rage, or terror, or sadness on the faceless shields and swords and bodies of his opponents. There was something therapeutic about the act, something healing in the destruction.

But this new method was a poor substitute.

Gareth surveyed his surroundings breathlessly. The trees around his campsite were bereft of limbs below eye level. His axe, Kinslayer, had done its job well, but the rage still remained.

The weapon was sharp enough to shave with, and its oak shaft was oiled to a shine. It was like a child to him now, the only possession that still remained with him of those he'd smuggled on board the ship that took him from the White Knife's mouth so long ago. The rest of his things, the relics of his old life, had long been bartered, swapped, exchanged, sold, or stolen.

Unsatisfied with his destruction and the lack of release it afforded him, but panting from the effort of the deforestation, Gareth took a seat upon the fallen log he'd set before the campfire, which now had enough wood at the ready to keep it burning till summer.

He next did what he always did, which was sort through his equipment. Again.

He checked the straps of his leather rucksack for any tears, his dented plate armor for imperfections, and the soles of his boots for wear. Finding a flaw in every category, Gareth felt disgust well up in his stomach. He pushed his finger through a hole in his leather jerkin.

_How could I have fallen so low?_

The fire he'd built burned brightly, its heat warming him as the pheasant he had trapped earlier roasted above the blaze on a spit. He turned the stick, the thoughts in his head turning, too.

Gareth valued many things in a man - his swordplay, his intelligence, his humility, but above all his honor. And he saw no honor in slaughtering bandits for money, knowing full well he would fight for the bandits if they could beat his masters' price.

_How could I have fallen so low..._

Glancing at his sack, Gareth took one last look at the pheasant before abandoning the spit to fetch his bag. He sat back on the log and rummaged within the travel stained pack until he found the crumpled parchment.

Letters and sums had never been his strong suit, but this one he'd read enough times to know its meaning front and back, and he hardly had to look at the tidy, familiar handwriting to hear the voice of the man who penned it in his head, reading the words aloud.

_ "__The faces here are foreign to me…" _it said._ "He grows more paranoid by the day. There are boys now, to replace the men who died…"_

Gareth's grip on the paper tightened, and a new wrinkle formed on the already tattered parchment.

_ "__I wish you luck on the Eastern Continent… I will do my best at home. You will hear from me soon, I promise…"_

Gareth balled the letter back up and stuffed it into the rucksack before kicking the bag away as though it were somehow tainted. The fire crackled and the pheasant sizzled, but Gareth's anger burned hotter than the both of them.

He picked up Kinslayer once more, feeling the rush of adrenaline course through his veins. With a mighty roar, he hurled the axe over his head, and watched as it struck the tree several yards away in its trunk with a _think_, splintering the bark with a satisfying crunch.

He was only a day's ride from Meereen. Perhaps he would find new boots there, new armor, a new rucksack, a new contract.

A new start.

The first letter was already too much to hope for. There would be no second one.

**\- AESLYN -**

Aeslyn held up the necklace. Its emerald glittered against her pale flesh, a deeper green than even her husband's eyes.

"Does it go with the red?" she asked, turning her head to the side as she addressed the handmaiden behind her.

"It does, Your Grace," the girl replied. "You look radiant."

"Put it on me then, don't just stand there like a fool."

The young maiden moved quickly to obey, clasping the golden chain around the Queen's neck while taking great care to avoid disturbing her elaborate hairstyle. Aeslyn's hair was wound and braided and coiled atop her head in the southern fashion, her delicate tiara nestled amongst white blonde tresses.

"This is an important night," Aeslyn told the girl. "My husband's victory feast, the start of a new season, the start of a new era. A new era for my house, a new era for _me_." She ran a hand over the bump in her abdomen. _Hear me roar,_ she thought.

The corridors of Maegor's Holdfast seemed busier than usual. Guards hurried about, vigilant in cloaks of red, and Aeslyn smiled sweetly at the noblemen and women she passed as Ser Daelys lead her from the keep to the lower bailey, and then down the serpentine steps.

The spring night was young and cool, and she pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders as she looked up at the stars just beginning to appear, little pinpricks of light in a vast gray sky. Her handmaidens kept the train of her gown from touching the dewy ground as she walked, and Aeslyn felt like a Queen.

_Nothing can ruin my mood tonight,_ she thought smugly to herself. _No man, no woman, no dark memory, this night belongs to me and me alone and-_

"Aeslyn!"

Her thoughts were interrupted by an urgent whisper from the shadows, just outside the castle sept. Aeslyn spun to face it, and Ser Daelys gripped the pommel of his sword and stepped forward.

_ "__Aeslyn!"_ the voice called again, louder, and a figure emerged hesitantly from behind the shrubbery.

"Robert," she said, frowning in recognition. Ser Daelys loosened his grip on his sword and Aeslyn glanced nervously over her shoulder, but the bailey was nearly empty and no one present was paying her any mind. "What are you doing?!" she hissed. "I told you not to approach me when-"

"I know," he interrupted, stepping into the moonlight. He reached to embrace her, but she recoiled. "I just… I had to see you," he said, looking somewhat wounded by her refusal.

_What does he expect? I am a Queen and he is a Commander, I cannot be seen in his company, yet alone in his arms. Fool of a man._

Robert glanced about the castle yard nervously. There were a few noblemen chatting some distance away, their laughter carrying faintly over the soggy lawn. "Listen," he said. "I have news for you."

"News? What news? Can't this wait? I'm going to be late for-"

"It's about _you_, Aeslyn."

"Me? What could you possibly-"

"The King is going to send you away," he said, grabbing her arm and whispering it in her ear. Aeslyn tried to wrench herself from his grasp at first, but when she heard the words she stopped struggling.

"Damon? Send me away? What are you talking about?"

"Kiss me," he said, and soon his lips were forced against hers. He tasted like wine.

Aeslyn tried to wriggle free but his grip was like iron. Robert finally released her, and she managed to sputter out a reply, wiping his spit from her mouth with the back of her sleeve. "Tell me what's going on!" she demanded.

"The King," he said. "I overheard him complaining to Lord Varyo. He means to send you to Fair Isle for the remainder of your pregnancy. Come into the sept, we can discuss this more in private…" He groped her breast with one hand and grabbed her waist with the other.

"Daelys!" she called shrilled, pulling away from the Commander. The White Knight stepped between the two, baring his steel. "You're lying," Aeslyn said, scowling over his armored shoulder at Robert. "You're only saying that because you want to drive a wedge between Damon and I, because you think it will make me love you more. Well you're _wrong. _I _don't_ love you, Robert. I love my husband, I love my _King._"

She narrowed her eyes. "And if you touch me again like that in public, I will have Ser Daelys lop off your hands."

Aeslyn gave a haughty "humph" and flounced off toward the throne room, leaving her lover behind. Spices, flowers, and the scent of freshly baked bread greeted her when the guards swung open the great iron doors. The chamber was lit with a thousand flickering candles, and lined with hundreds of tables and twice as many benches.

Men and women laughed and clinked glasses beneath banners of red, gold, and black, dressed in all the colors of a Westerosi peace banner, animals and patterns embroidered on their breasts.

She made her way to the dais at the foot of the Iron Throne slowly, enjoying the bows and curtsies that met her along the way, the gasps of awe from gently bred girls, the lingering stares of every man in the room. She seated herself in the empty seat beside her husband and offered him her cheek to kiss. Damon did so quickly, returning at once to some conversation he was having with Lord Arryn.

"Less food," he was saying. "Doesn't that seem rather draconian to you? We can't have people starving to death in the dungeons..."

Aeslyn wasn't listening, staring at the back of his blonde head. _Robert was lying,_ she knew. _Damon would never send me away._

"This is boring," she remarked loudly, after near an hour passed without receiving a single compliment on her hairstyle. She tugged on Damon's arm. "When are they bringing out the Sword of the Morning?"

"Ulrich?" Damon asked, turning to look at her in confusion. Lord Arryn had brought a stack of papers with him to the feast and the two had been going over them for the better part of the time since she'd sat down. They were interrupted on occasion by various noblemen and women come to kneel and declare their fealty, and each time Damon paused in his conversation with Lord Arryn to smile and say something polite. Aeslyn was surprised to see her husband's wine untouched.

_He would make a most convincing mummer,_ she thought, remembering how he'd laughed at some droll stormlord's stupid jape._ Why can't he be that way with me? It wouldn't matter how he felt inside, it would_ feel_ real._

"Why would they bring Ulrich out?" Damon asked, giving her none of the amiable facade he'd given the kneelers. _Can he only learn to play a king's role and not a husband's? _

"For his sentencing," she explained, annoyed at his bewilderment.

"In the middle of a feast? Why would he be sentenced here?"

"I ordered it," Aeslyn said proudly. "Every feast needs entertainment, and what better than the trial of a traitor to-"

"You did _what?"_ If before he looked bewildered, now Damon appeared stunned. "You're giving _Ulrich Dayne_ an audience of half the bloody realm to spew his horse-"

"Aha!" She clapped her hands excitedly when the doors to the throne room opened with a groan. "Here he comes!"

Down the long red carpet that stretched from the doors to the foot of the throne, they led him, shackled but with his head held high. The musicians ceased their play, all eyes turned toward the captive knight, and lords and ladies began to whisper at once.

Ulrich was dressed in tattered rags, barefoot and unwashed, but he walked as though he were an honored guest at the feast, and locked eyes with the King as he approached. Damon seemed to sink lower in his seat, and Aeslyn heard him mutter.

"He is going to say something dramatic, I just-"

"Damon Lannister!" Ulrich called out, his voice ringing with authority and conviction. "The Lion Who Would Be King."

The soldiers and their captive halted some distance from the dais, and the clinking of glassware could be heard in the uncomfortable silence that followed the party's arrival.

Ulrich swiveled, his chains rattling, to gaze around the packed throne room. Some guests were standing, hanging in interrupted conversations, others were seated at their long tables. A few men and women had been dancing, and drifted apart from each other slowly to watch the new scene unfolding before them.

"Am I to be your entertainment?" Ulrich demanded of them, violet eyes sweeping over the crowd. "Have you all come to see the Great Ulrich Dayne, the last of the White Knights, wielder of Dawn, and Beacon of Honor? The Jewel of Essos, the Keeper of Knightly Chivalry, the Sword of the Morning, Breaker of-"

"They're here for the feast, Ulrich," Damon answered him, slouching in his seat and drumming his fingers against the armrest. "The one celebrating my victory."

"A hollow one," replied the prisoner, meeting the King's bored stare with defiance. "You have won nothing so long as I draw breath. Is that why you've brought me here? To execute me before the realm?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Damon shot back, sitting up now. "You think that-"

"Enough!" Aeslyn rose with elegance and grace, despite being heavy with pregnancy, and every eye turned to her. A long pause let her soak it all in, and a smug smile pulled at the corners of her pink lips. Never before had she felt so much like a Queen, with nearly every nobleman and woman in Westeros watching her there at the foot of the Iron Throne.

"Ser Ulrich Dayne," she said, "You have been brought here to be tried for your crimes. You stand accused of high treason to the crown, the punishment for which is death. How do you answer?"

"You mean to try me?" Ulrich replied. giving a haughty laugh. "I have seen Lannister justice. Spare me your mummer's show. I will not be judged by one with hands so bloody as your husband. No. Only the gods can judge me. I demand a trial by combat."

"Fine!" Aeslyn snapped, over the gasps of the audience. "Then I name Caelon as the throne's champion!" She turned to Ser Daelys, looming protectively behind her chair. "Fetch my champion, Ser Daelys," she commanded before spinning back to Ulrich and his guards. "See to it that the prisoner is allowed a sword and armor, and clear a space for this trial. Ulrich Dayne will fight before the eyes of the Gods, yes, but also before all the realm and the Iron Throne itself."

They dragged him away, and at once the chamber was alive with the excited chatter of hundreds again. _Caelon,_ they all whispered anxiously, _Who is Caelon?_

Aeslyn sat down, filled with satisfaction. They would all see soon enough.

Her husband was brooding silently, and she picked at her dinner without much interest, deciding better than to attempt conversation. No more lords or ladies came to greet them, all too busy speculating amongst themselves as to the mystery champion. It was a long time before Damon finally voiced his begrudging curiosity.

"Caelon," he said at last, flatly, and when Aeslyn looked to her husband she saw that he had picked up his cup, all traces of congeniality vanquished from his face. "I can't say I've ever heard of a knight by that name." He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What are you doing, Aeslyn?"

She smiled. "Well you can't have heard of _everyone_, my love. Look around you. This feast is filled with men from near every house in Westeros. You can't know _all_ of them."

"Is that so?" he asked challengingly, setting down his wine. Servants were hurrying to clear a space in the center of the vast chambers, and men and women were flocking to the gallery in hopes of finding the best view for the fight. "Fine. Point to one. Anyone in here."

"Fine," Aeslyn said. "That man, there. The one with the crab on his breast, with the white hair."

"Lord Myles Celtigar," Damon said at once, "of Claw Isle. And those are his sisters, Daena, Naera, and... Rhaena? Rhaenyra."

"What about him?" She nodded to a handsome, curly haired young man dressed in black and yellow, flirting with a serving girl come to refill his wine.

"Corliss Caron," Damon explained, rolling his eyes. "Lord of Harp Songs."

"And him?"

"Easy, a Westerlands noble. Lord Gerion Clegane, named for my grandsire. And beside him is Lord Lorent Marbrand, and to his right is Lyle Crakehall and his oldest son Eon, followed by Clarent, the younger."

"Alright…" Aeslyn scanned the room. "What about those two? The man feeding his wife a blackberry tart, as I wish you would do me."

"Lewys Penrose," Damon told her, "and that's not his wife, it's his sister, Sansa. Shocking to see them here, really. I understand the Penroses almost _never_ leave their castle. If you want a tart, you can go ahead and pick one up yourself, it's not as though your wrists are broken."

Aeslyn frowned, and searched the crowded throne room for another target, her gaze passing over some of the small council members who appeared to be engaged in a heated drinking contest. "What about that sour looking woman by the wall with the long brown hair?"

"That's Lady Alysanne Rogers, and the reason she's so miserable is because her husband was killed at Stonehelm. Half the people in this room were my enemies a moon's turn ago, and now they've come to beg forgiveness. My father says that it's our duty to help them to their feet, or else no one will drop to their knees for us again."

Aeslyn thought about that for half a second before her eye was drawn to a particularly beautiful gown.

"And that woman there? The one in yellow, with the blue sigil with a laurel wreath."

Damon followed her gaze and noticeably paled. He fumbled for his wine cup at the same time as he stammered out a reply. "That is, ah… That would be the…"

Before he could finish, the doors to the throne room were wrenched open again, and a hush fell over the room. Framed in the threshold was a silhouette unlike anything the men and women in the great hall had ever seen before.

As big as a horse and as dark as ink, obsidian scales glowing red underneath, the dragon was led into the chamber in irons by Ser Daelys and some very skittish guardsmen. Her beady yellow eyes swept the room, and then her black jaw opened to reveal two rows of razor sharp teeth as she unleashed a blood curdling shriek that threw the feast into silence.

"Well here is one you _don't _know," Aeslyn said smugly. "That, my darling, is Caelon."

**\- SARELLA -**

Sarella had seen Essosi ships before, many a time. They docked their vibrant sails at Sunspear on their way to Lannisport and Oldtown, and their colorful merchant captains sometimes even came to the palace. They met with her father and talked trade and politics, or brought their exotic wares and spices to court in a grand display.

She was always enraptured by their foreign dress and strange tongues, and loved the dancers best of all. But the ship that docked in Sunspear now did not carry food or drink or gold or gemstones, nor dancers or merchants or wandering wealthy adventurers.

_No. This cargo is invaluable._

Her gown billowed out about her legs, the sheer light fabric caught in an ocean breeze. The dress was simple, a rusty orange gown cut from a single piece of cloth, bound at her waist with a red satin sash. Her handmaidens had trained her hair into one long braid that hung to her waist, and wove rubies throughout. The servants held a canopy above her head, shielding her from the glaring sun as the Princess and her retinue waited for the gang plank to be lowered.

The war galley's deck was chaotic. Men were shouting commands in coarse sounding dialects, tossing heavy ropes from the rail to the dockmen below.

"Aero," Sarella said, addressing the captain of her guard. "What language are they speaking?"

The Dornishman squinted up at the warship. "I am not certain, my Princess. It seems like many."

She sighed. Aero was not the most educated of men, but she didn't need her bodyguards to be brilliant.

The commotion on deck finally began to settle, and the soldiers on board formed an orderly line around the ramp. A large man, rugged and scarred with long dark hair called out the arrival of the guest in guttural Valyrian. A second voice, belonging to a more slender man with his chestnut hair pulled back into a ponytail, translated into the Common Tongue.

"Danae Targaryen, Slayer of Triarchs, Conqueror of Volantis, Survivor of Valyria, Master of Dragons and Destroyer of Cities!"

The titles were longer than the appearing woman was tall. The youngest Targaryen was slender and petite, dressed in a plain white gown that reached her knees and split just above, revealing dark riding leathers beneath. The sleeves were ruched and a bronze pin closed the neckline at her breasts. Her hair was silver spun gold, plaited like a crown upon her head, and her violet eyes had a fire in them that Sarella had seen few times before in her life.

She was breathtaking.

_Just like I need her to be_.

The two men who announced her descended the gang plank first, and Danae followed behind, her scuffed leather boots finding the footholds on the steep slope.

"Lady Danae," Sarella said with a smile when she reached the dock. "Welcome to Dorne."

"Princess." Danae nodded her head, and then gestured to the men at either side of her. "Captain Rahak of the Windblown," she said, "and his second in command, Meizo." She turned then and swept her hand in the direction of the harbor, where more ships dotted the gray horizon. "The Second Sons," she explained. Her gaze was hard, and she cut an imposing figure despite the smallness of her stature.

"Grandmaester Orin wrote me of your deeds in Essos," Sarella told her, her voice full of warmth. "And your army, as well. I've been awaiting your arrival most eagerly." She looked up at the ship behind Danae, the sellswords lining the rail like statues with spears in hands, their blue silk streamers floating on the breeze.

_They won't be enough, _she knew.

"The dragon," Sarella said. "Might I see it?"

Something changed in Danae's comely face, and she frowned slightly. Her eyes betrayed her mistrust from the moment she stepped onto the dock, but now the Targaryen looked downright suspicious. She narrowed her lavender eyes.

"Do you not believe I have one, Princess?" Danae asked calmly. "Do you think that Volantis burnt itself to the ground? Do you think the triarchs forfeited their city because they feared_ men?"_

"It is not a matter of belief," Sarella replied, her smile never faltering. "Merely curiosity. But if you wish to keep your child from prying eyes, then I will not press you. I trust you, Danae. You may not trust me yet, but I trust you. You won't find many rulers of kingdoms so willing to see a claimant to the Iron Throne land on their shores. Most of them prefer their heads on their shoulders. But I know that there is no reward without risk. Will you ride with me to the palace?"

She motioned behind her to the waiting palanquin, painted in bold orange and yellow with satin curtains. Danae seemed hesitant. She glanced quickly to her Captain and his general, and then addressed them in a hushed voice. The muscled one laughed, but the slender one answered her softly.

Danae stepped forward at last. "Thank you, Princess," she said politely. "Five of my men will follow behind us. The rest will remain here at the docks."

Sarella entered first, taking Aero's hand in assistance. Danae rejected the same aid, and shot one last glance over her shoulder at her men before climbing into the litter. A guard pulled the curtain shut behind her.

"You are wise to not trust so easily," Sarella said, once the Targaryen sat herself down uncomfortably on a silk pillow. She had been expecting benches, no doubt, but instead there were only cushions. Danae sat cross-legged, but Sarella herself sprawled out on her side, taking a bowl of red grapes and placing it between them on the soft furs that lined the floor.

"Westeros is a treacherous continent," Sarella continued. "There are people here who would sell you to your sister for half a day's wages, and not lose a wink of sleep over it."

"But not you," Danae replied levelly. "I expect you would demand a higher price."  
Sarella laughed. "Your sister could offer me the moon and I would still reject her. They say she's mad, and mad people cannot be bargained with."

Sarella reached into the bowl and plucked a grape, then held it out for Danae. The Targaryen looked at the fruit warily for a long moment before taking it, but she did not place it in her mouth. Instead, she rolled it between two fingers as she spoke.

"News of the war reached me in Lys," she said. "The Baratheon is dead and now a Lannister sits the throne uncontested, with Aeslyn as his Queen. His sword and her blood are his claim, but that seat was forged by _my_ ancestors. My sister may not realize it, and she may not want it, but that throne was not meant to be shared."

She looked down at the grape in her hand, and finally brought it to her mouth.

"My aunt was once Queen." Sarella traced patterns in the rug absentmindedly as she spoke. "Wife to Harys, mother to the Prince. She was a beautiful woman, and strong, but she has been dead for seven years now and Westeros has only known the rule of a man in that time. Look what a man's rule has wrought - the Stag lost his throne because of his manhood. He sought to wed a rose and threw the realm into chaos. Men are not fit to lead. How can one rule over others when he is subject first to the rule of his own cock?"

Danae nearly choked on the grape. She coughed, and Sarella passed her a chalice from a tray behind her. Danae drank without looking, and then made a slight face, pulling the cup away to look inside.

"Wine," Sarella explained. "How old are you, Danae?"

"Sixteen," she replied, hesitantly.

_I'll bet she turned it yesterday_, Sarella thought. "Have you bled?" she asked.

"Have I- _excuse me?_"

"Have you bled," Sarella said again. "I assume you have. Am I correct?" Danae seemed dumbfounded by the question, and Sarella waved a hand lazily. "Never mind. Women don't become fools once they lose their maidenheads, as men do."

"I haven't lost my maidenhead," Danae told her. "I mean, that is, I've never…"

"Forgive me," Sarella interrupted. "I just saw your Captain and thought… forget it. It is of no importance. There is much I must tell you about what has come to pass in Westeros during your absence, but my news can wait. I want to know about _you_."

Danae regarded her suspiciously. "What is it you want to know?" she asked slowly. "I have no secrets, Princess, if that is what you are after. No more dragon eggs hidden away in my father's watchtower, no magic passed down from my ancestors that can transmute metals or bind spells, and if you seek to extort me-"

"Extort you?" Sarella put a hand to her chest, feigning offense. "I would never. I seek to _help_ you. You and I are kindred spirits, Lady Danae. Would that you could have been born a Dornish woman, and experienced the freedom that comes with it. The words of my house are 'Unbent, Unbowed, Unbroken.' House Martell has submitted to no one. We came into the seven kingdoms through marriage, a marriage to dragons."

Sarella picked up the second chalice and poured her own wine.

"A raven arrived not long ago to herald the onset of spring," she said casually. "Spring is a time of new beginnings, and here we are in Sunspear, honoring ancient alliances."

She raised her cup to the Targaryen.

"Those seven kingdoms are _yours_, Danae. And I intend to help you claim them."

**\- AESLYN -**

Aeslyn stood and watched with a smile as the lords and ladies on the ground level scattered, falling over each other in their rush to get as far away from the dragon as possible. Those on the upper balcony did precisely the opposite, scrambling for a spot at the rail that would afford the best view.

Strong as he was, Ser Daelys struggled with the chain that linked to the collar around Caelon's throat. The beast was frightened by the noise and the crowd, and wrenched back against her irons, throwing her neck from side to side and snapping at the air. One particularly sharp tug accompanied by the beating of wings nearly sent the knight sprawling.

The men and women packed into the throne room gasped as the dragon spread its red wings, doubling in size, and Aeslyn could hear the scraping of wooden legs against the stone floors as her husband shoved his chair back.

"No!" she cried, whirling around to face Damon. "It's fine! Everything is fine, she's just frightened!"

The King exchanged nervous glances with Ser Ryman, who had already drawn his sword. Sensing what he was about to command, Aeslyn grabbed her skirts and rushed from the table.

_No. My Caelon will not be executed by an army of White Cloaks. This is a trial, this is MY trial!_

She ran as quickly as she could in the massive dress, down the steps of the dais and towards the commotion.

"Caelon!" she shouted. "Caelon, stop!"

But the dragon did not seem to recognize her voice, if she could hear her at all. The beast threw her head back, opened her black maw, and screamed. Fire poured forth from deep within her throat, causing those on the floor to scream and those on the balcony to dive for cover as she shook her neck back and forth once more.

_ "__CAELON! NO!"_

Aeslyn stomped her foot as she screamed, and the dragon swiveled her scaly head, noticing her for the first time. Plumes of dark smoke poured from the dragon's flared nostrils as her yellow eyes locked with her master's violet ones.

"Caelon! I order you to stop! I order you to-"

The dragon roared, and lunged for her, striking out like a snake. Before Aeslyn could process what had happened she found herself sprawled on her side on the floor beneath heavy plate. She cried out in pain, and saw only darkness when she opened her eyes until Ser Daelys drew the shield he held over her away.

"Your Grace!" the knight yelled over the commotion, climbing to his feet. "Run!"

"Daelys!" Aeslyn struggled to sit up on her elbows. "Daelys, you can't-"

Suddenly the knight vanished, and Aeslyn stared in confusion at the place he had been until she realized what had happened. Caelon had swung her great spiked tail and swept the man's legs out from under him. Now she lumbered over to his fallen form, pressing one heavy talon onto his chest, claws piercing the armor as she curled them.

_ "__NO!"_

The dragon's molten yellow eyes locked with the knight's and she drew her neck back, prepared to unleash her flame, when the goblet struck her in the head.

Caelon startled, and Aeslyn watched breathlessly as the dragon swiveled to look for the source of the blow only to be struck again, this time by a bowl. She pushed herself off of the knight, turning to face the agitator. From her place on the floor, Aeslyn could see Ulrich, sword in one hand and goblet in another, before Caelon spread her wings and blocked out the vision with her papery thin red sails.

"Daelys!" Aeslyn struggled to crawl over to the fallen knight, throwing herself against his chest. When she looked down at his snowy white breastplate she saw the marks of her dragon's claws where Caelon had pierced the steel. Daelys was panting heavily, and his eyes were blank as he stared up towards the ceiling blindly. "Daelys, are you alright?! _Daelys!"_

"Come, dragon!" she heard a man's voice call. "Come and face your doom! I would like to add a new title to my name today!"

Rage boiled up within her at Ulrich's words, and she pried her gaze from her white knight to glare in his direction.

_I hope she gives you a slow death,_ Aeslyn thought. _Fire would be too kind. I hope she tears your limbs from your body one by one._

Ulrich threw the goblet to the floor and tossed his sword from one hand to the other as if to get a feel for its weight. The armor they'd given him was steel, worn but well cared for, and it glittered darkly in the light of the braziers throughout the Great Hall.

Caelon's spiked spiny tail scraped against the stone as she moved closer to the prisoner, swaying back and forth across the floor dangerously, sending the goblet and the bowl he'd thrown skittering towards the cowering nobles who stood huddled against the walls. She snapped at the taunting figure, and Ulrich sidestepped her jaw, collecting his shield from the ground as he did so and bringing it up to meet her next attack.

The two began their dance, the dragon lunging and striking out with her teeth and the knight spinning and diving away. Twice his sword met her face, and Aeslyn could hear the sound of the metal screeching uselessly as it struck hard scales. Ulrich took Caelon in circles, and the dragon glanced between her prey and the feast goers lined against the walls anxiously, the nervousness in her yellow eyes as plain as day to her master.

The hush that had fallen over the throne room once the true sparring began was suddenly broken by the wailing of a child. Caelon's neck spun sharply in the direction of the sound, and she locked onto a small toddler as he clutched his mother's skirts. The woman's eyes widened in terror as the dragon began to lumber in their direction, raising her tail like a scorpion's.

"Over here, you overgrown lizard!"

As Caelon went to unleash her flame, Ulrich found the dragon's soft underbelly with his blade, slicing her just behind her back leg. Caelon spun to face the new attacker, a screech piercing the air. This time her fire did not fail her, and flames spewed from her mouth against Ulrich's shield, which he'd raised only just in time to catch the brunt of it.

Aeslyn looked on as Caelon's fiery breath engulfed the shield, and Ulrich staggered back onto his knees, wincing behind the steel. When at last the barrage ceased, he threw the shield to the ground, shaking out his arm vigorously as though it were burning. The metal on the outside was red hot, the sigil of a white tower on gray now melting.

The knight hardly had time to recover before Caelon lunged once more, this time with a maw of sharpened, snapping teeth. Ulrich spun, ducked, and leapt out of the way, but the dragon was enraged now, frenzied by the wound he'd given her. Black blood dripped, hissing as it hit the tiled floor.

Aeslyn could feel her heart hammering in her chest as she lay there on the floor, one hand protectively over her belly. The knight was on the retreat and Caelon lashed out wildly, twice clipping the knight with her heavy, scaled tail, but Ulrich was quickly back on his feet each time, snarling, his sharpened point looking for any weakness in the dragon's armor. A woman somewhere was sobbing and Caelon hissed, unfurling her wings wide and forcing Ulrich back a step. The dragon's eyes followed his movement, her thin tongue coiling out to sniff at the air, and Ulrich panted, one arm blackened and burned by the dragonfire, the other, holding his blade, dipping low, exhausted.

_ "__Come now!_" he shouted, "I'm not done with you!"

And Caelon came, blood streaming from her open wound, maw black and gaping and snapping, full of sharpened teeth as large as daggers. Ulrich's roar was no longer words as he twisted away from the beast, and as Caelon's neck coiled to follow, Ulrich's sword rose, honed steel flashing in the torchlight. Man and beast tumbled together as the killing blow found its mark. Steel pierced the dragon's snout, and Caelon screamed. Ulrich screamed.

Aeslyn screamed.

The knight shoved his sword deeper, between the dragon's eyes, and Aeslyn watched as Caelon twisted and buckled, body crumpling to the floor. Her claws scraped against the polished marble and the sword was pulled from Ulrich's hands as the jaw snapped uselessly against the air. Black blood pooled and hissed in a steaming puddle on the stone floor beneath her.

_ "__Nooooooooooooo!"_

The world was spinning. It felt as though Aeslyn's very soul were being torn from her being like a page from a tome, and then, suddenly, she didn't feel at all. Not grief, not anguish, not despair, and not the hands that lifted her from the floor and dragged her away, away from her dragon, away from her child, away from Caelon.

It wasn't until the doors of the slate roofed keep behind the Royal Sept were closed and barred that the new feeling washed over her, flooding every fiber of her being like a tidal wave, waking her up again from toe to head as she stood there grinning in the Maidenvault. Aeslyn threw back her head and laughed, the sound echoing off the high castle ceilings as she recognized the emotion. Relief.

It was relief.

**\- DANAE -**

The Old Palace of Sunspear was alight with activity, and Danae couldn't help but stare as she was led down the stone hallways. Every corridor bustled with exotic and colorfully dressed noblemen and women from Dorne, all manners of sigils decorating their clothing. There were servants toting flagons of Dornish Red and barrels of pomegranates, merchants carrying crates of live snakes to be roasted and served for a feast.

The guard who led her down the long stone hallways could have been a moving sculpture chiseled out of stone. His long dark hair was tied back behind his head in the way that James so often wore his own, but the rest of him was nothing like her waterdancer friend. He was so tall that Danae had to crane her head back in order to meet his face, so instead she rested her gaze on the perfectly sculpted muscles of his back.

The man came to a stop at the end of the hallway before a pair of doors carved from pale marble and rapped lightly on them with tanned knuckles. They swung open and Danae was greeted by a tall and lithe woman with curly black hair. Her olive cheeks were flushed and she met the guard's stare with a smug smile before turning her gaze to Danae. Her dark eyes surveyed the Targaryen briefly before she stepped wordlessly aside and into the hallway, allowing Danae to pass by her over the threshold.

Inside the chambers, the Martell princess was seated on her couch, reclining against the soft fabric with her long legs extended while a handmaiden sat at the foot of the sofa and gently rubbed her bare feet. Another young girl stood behind her, brushing out her long dark waves. Sarella was adorned head to toe in golden bracelets and bangles, and the crimson silk dress she wore left little to be imagined of the body underneath.

"Lady Danae," she greeted with a faint smile, looking up at Danae almost lazily.

She gestured to a pile of delicate silk pillows on the ground, motioning for Danae to sit. When the Targaryen approached hesitantly, the Princess moved to join her on the ground as well, signaling to a servant who swiftly placed a bowl of olives, two chalices, and a carafe of wine on the floor between them. The Princess flicked her bangled wrist and the two handmaidens departed quickly, following the tall woman out of the room and pulling the doors closed behind them.

Danae watched them go over her shoulder, and when she realized that she was now completely alone in the bedchamber of this strange Dornish ruler, she couldn't help but feel a growing anxiousness in her stomach.

_This was not wise,_ she thought. _I should not have come alone. Who's to say I can trust this woman?_

Sarella picked up one of the chalices and filled it, the wine bubbling into the glass the only sound in the otherwise still chamber. Candles flickered on their pricketts as the last of the day's sunlight slowly crept away, filling the room with the warm red glow of a Dornish sunset.

"Your palace seems quite busy," Danae remarked, taking the cup that the Princess offered and trying her best to hide the nervousness she felt. Was she just handed poison? Her gaze flitted to the wine, a deep and bloody red, and she let out a shaky breath.

"We are preparing for a grand event," Sarella admitted, pouring her own cup next. "My wedding."

Danae was momentarily taken aback. "You're getting married?" she asked, before quickly remembering her manners. "Congratulations, Princess," Danae said sheepishly. "I apologize, I have no gift for you. Had I known…"

She felt like a fool. Here she had seen herself the diplomat, sailing into Sunspear as a conqueror with an army, there to negotiate an alliance and make plans for conquest, and instead she had interrupted a wedding.

"Nonsense," Sarella told her, shaking her head. She set down the carafe of wine and then made herself more comfortable on the satin cushions, sliding her long tanned legs out from under her. "King Damon and many of the high lords and ladies of Westeros will be flocking to Sunspear soon. They will bring me presents enough, but though it is my celebration, I plan to give a few gifts of my own. The first one is to you, Danae."

"To me?" Danae watched as Sarella took a long drink of wine, and then tasted a sip herself. It burned going down, and she fought to keep her expression neutral. "My lady," she said politely, "You have already given me refuge, and the hospitality of your palace, when you admitted yourself that you could have just as easily sold me to my sister."

_Which you swore you wouldn't. _Danae watched the Princess with suspicion. "I can't possibly imagine what more you could offer me."

"Something you want very, very badly," Sarella said with a knowing smile. She scooted closer towards Danae, and while one hand held her chalice, she placed the other on the Targaryen's knee. "Your sister will be arrested for crimes of adultery and high treason."

"I- what?"

"She will be found guilty when a host of Dornish servants come forward with others to bear witness against her. The trial will be officiated by the man with whom I arranged everything. The King has no knowledge of this, nor will he be able to intervene in time. Aeslyn will be removed as Queen and will face the penalty of death for her treason."

She raised her chalice in a toast, her dark eyes glinting as they locked onto Danae's. "That, Lady Danae, is my gift for you."

Danae felt her stomach twisting and she clenched her small fist tightly around the stem of the silver chalice. "Why?" she asked after a long pause. "Why would you? Aeslyn has nothing of power. She can't even command her own dragon. She's a weak, defenseless fool. She is _nothing. _That will do _nothing_ to wrest the throne from Damon Lannister."

"Is that so?" Sarella asked. The smile from her face was gone at once, and she removed her hand from Danae's knee to sit back and watch her over the rim of her cup. "If you are such a brilliant strategist, please tell me, what is your plan to remove the Lion from his seat?

"Damon Lannister is kin to the Greyjoys," Sarella continued, "with eighteen thousand swords and a fleet greater than the crown's. The North has as many soldiers as Dorne, plus a few more. The Riverlands bring thirty thousand, the Vale thirty thousand, the Reach with nearly fifty... The Golden Company is sworn to the crown now. They are the finest swords this world has ever seen. They would cut your Windblown and Second Sons into ribbons. All these men, over one hundred thousand, sworn to Damon the Lion."

The olives sat between them untouched, and Danae felt all traces of any appetite she might have had vanish.

"You claim you wish to obtain the Iron Throne," Sarella went on, "and will let nothing deter you. You come here to Dorne with your modest fleet, a dragon you cannot yet ride, and two sellsword companies, and you think that it will be enough? Even with my entire army at your back, you would be madder than your sister to try and take your rightful place on the throne through fire and blood. Your way to the seat of your ancestors is not through conquest. No. Our sex has doomed us. The way to the throne for a woman is the same as it has always been..."

Danae waited expectantly for Sarella to finish, but the Princess was taking her time, enjoying another long sip of the spicy Dornish wine. When at last she set the cup down, she was smiling again.

"Through marriage."

"No," Danae said at once. "Never. I would never."

"You will," Sarella replied. "If you ever wish for a chance to take the throne. If you ever wish for a chance to even set foot in the castle of your ancestors."

"I would be no better than Aeslyn." Danae shook her head and drank deeply from her cup, allowing the warmth to spread through her body. "The throne would remain his instead of my own," she said, setting the chalice back down.

Sarella inched closer yet and tipped the lip of the flagon over so that Danae's cup was filled to the brim once more.

"That, Lady Danae, is where you are wrong." She placed the carafe back onto its silver tray and then turned her dark eyes to Danae, speaking her next words slowly. "It is true that men hold their control over us. It is written in the customs and the traditions of this continent, it is manifest in the differences between our bodies, men with their muscles made to swing swords, their hearts filled with a lust for blood that fuels their ambitions…But the control that women wield over men..."

The Princess smiled then. "That is simple. That is here..." She leaned over the olives and placed her fingertips gently against Danae's breast, then traced them all the way down her thin dress to rest in her lap. "...And here."

Danae felt a chill run up her spine when Sarella touched her, and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. When the Princess sat back against the pillows once more, Danae brought her cup to her lips again and drank until it was nearly empty.

"No," she said when she was finished, wiping the wine from her mouth with the back of her hand and shaking her head. "I am sorry, Princess. I cannot do what you are asking of me. I would sooner die fighting for that throne the only way I know how, with blood and fire and steel, than spend the rest of my life watching someone else sit upon it, bearing that someone's children, sharing that someone's bed, no. You ask too much of me."

Sarella's vulpine smile did not falter at Danae's protests. "I never said you'd spend the rest of your life this way," she said slyly. "Wait here."

The Princess rose from the pillows gracefully, and Danae followed her lithe silhouette as she crossed the floor of the bedchamber and went to a table at her bedside. Her grip tightened around the stem of the wine glass again, and she finished what was left in the cup, hoping the fire in the Dornish red might burn away the awful knot that was forming in her stomach.

Sarella's gown was as sheer as lace, and Danae looked away from the lissome body it revealed beneath. Her cheeks were already burning, perhaps the wine would work.

"Here," Sarella said, taking her seat on the satin cushions. In her hands was a necklace, which she held out before Danae. Its collar was delicate lace, black as a raven's feathers, and at its center was nestled a pear cut ruby, set in dark gold, with a tear drop black gemstone dangling just underneath. "Another gift," Sarella explained.

Danae looked suspiciously at the jewelry.

"Take it," the Princess urged.

She held out her hand timidly, and Sarella gently placed the necklace in the center of her palm. "I would never condemn you to life with the Lannister," she said. "Your sentence would only be as long as it took for you to bear him a son. After that, all you need do is slip this gemstone into his wine, and the throne will be yours, and yours alone."

Danae turned the ruby over and stared at the way the candlelight reflected off the stone's edges before Sarella placed a slender finger under her chin and gently lifted her head.

"I understand that this is no easy path I have laid for you. Power can only be taken by those who have it, and those who have it are men."

She took Danae's hand in her own and traced the lines on her palm around the ruby necklace.

"You may leave if you wish," Sarella continued. "I would not force you to stay. There are men in Essos more desirable than your sister's husband. Perhaps you can manage to find allies in the Free Cities as willing to aid you as I. Perhaps you can steal power from another man there and rule over a city of cheesemongers and blue-bearded lovers, all while Damon Lannister grows old on Aegon's throne-"

"No," Danae interrupted before she could finish. "My place is in Westeros. If this is what it takes, if this is what I must do, so be it."

The Princess smiled her wicked grin and moved to kneel behind Danae. She brushed the Targaryen's hair to the side before fastening the necklace around her pale neck and letting her hands wander down the length of Danae's arms.

"As of now, the King is not aware of his wife's treason, but he will learn of it soon, at a time I deem right," Sarella murmured, her lips brushing against Danae's ear. "I would have you catch his eye before then, but do not attempt to seduce him until he knows. You are a beautiful thing, he will not be able to ignore you, but it will be his anger against his wife that drives him to your arms.

"What better vengeance against the woman who betrayed him than to bed her sister? When he finds himself without a wife, counselors will seek to make a match with the highest political gain. I will see to it that his closest advisors whisper your name in his ear, but it is up to you to make sure he remembers who you are."

"I've never been with a man," Danae whispered back. "I won't know what to do, how to make him remember me."

Sarella laughed and pressed her soft lips to Danae's neck, sending a shiver all the way up her spine. She stroked Danae's hair and then her fingers traced the lacing of her gown until she reached its hem. "My lady," she murmured, sliding the fabric up slowly until Danae let out another shaky breath, "conquering a man is much more simple than conquering a Free City."


	6. Chapter 6

**\- THADDIUS -**

_Ser Thaddius Lannister_

Thaddius stared down at the White Book on the shield table and it stared right back at him, in all its ancient prestige, in all its judgement. His page was so empty, only a few lines penned below his name in Jaime Florent's hand.

_Knighted at ten and seven. Anointed at ten and nine to the sacred ranks of the Kingsguard. Sworn sword to King Harys Baratheon, the First of His Name._

Dates. Facts. Dry as the Boneway.

He tapped the quill against the table impatiently, waiting for the words to come to him. His accomplishments, his great deeds, the proof that he merited this new title.

_Ser Thaddius Lannister, Lord Commander._

There should be a long list of valorous achievements before the declaration, he knew. Florent's had been respectably substantial. Over a decade spent as one of the Seven. A hand in putting down the Bolton Uprising. The routing of bandits in the Kingswood.

_Appointed Lord Commander at forty after the passing of Ser Mathos Tyrell,_ the book explained, at the end of several paragraphs detailing the Fox's prowess. How would he phrase his, Thaddius wondered.

_Appointed Lord Commander at twenty because his father said so._ _Sworn sword to King Harys Baratheon, the First of His Name. Led the armies of his usurper brother, Damon the Drinker, against the Stag at the Battle at the Kingswood in 500 AC, rose to his position after Commander Florent was hanged by Lord Loren Lan-_

He shoved the book from the table, and watched it hit the floor with a dull thud. Florent had shit himself when he hanged, Thaddius remembered that. Most men did. It happened after they were already dead, an involuntary expulsion of whatever was left in them. It was almost as if the body realized that food was for the living, and was ridding itself of anything a dead man would have no use for.

No one ever talked about those parts of dying - the ugly parts. The way they soiled themselves, the way all the muscles stiffened, the way some fingers twitched on their own after the light had gone out, as though some puppetmaster were testing to see if the strings were still attached.

Thaddius jumped when the door opened, and scrambled to his feet when he saw that it was his father.

Loren was dressed for riding, with not a single silver gold hair out of place or a button unpolished. The chain of hands hung around his neck, fingers to palm.

"Father." Thaddius bowed at the waist, and looked at him in confusion. "Are you going somewhere?"

Loren's gaze fell to the book on the ground. Thaddius felt a flush creep up his neck.

"It slipped," he explained hurriedly, quickly retrieving the book. The Round Room felt suddenly small, as all chambers did once Loren Lannister entered them. Thaddius was taller than him, as he was taller than most men, but his father's presence was as imposing as a giant's. He could feel himself starting to sweat.

"Did your brother speak to you of the Riverlands?" Loren came to the table slowly, and rested a hand against the carved weirwood.

"The Riverlands? What of them?" Thaddius set the White Book down atop the table again. "Is this about Randyll and the Baelishes? I'd heard Lord Emmon was going to return him to us, in exchange for a pardon for not fighting at the Kingswood. Has something changed?"

"Lord Randyll is dead."

"Oh."

Loren's face was as unreadable as ever. The two had been somewhat close, Thaddius knew, he and Randyll. As close as Loren could get to anyone, at least, but not as close as the Frey had been with Damon. Why would his brother not mention such news?

"Are you sure that Damon knows this?" Thaddius asked carefully.

"He does not," Loren replied. "What I am asking is if he has spoken to you about the bandits, a group of cutthroats and thieves calling themselves the Burning Hand's Men. Supposedly formed from the remnants of Harys' forces after the Kingswood, they've found a foothold in the Riverlands, and have been preying on the Kingsroad."

Thaddius blinked.

"He did not, then."

"Perhaps he did and I forgot," Thaddius suggested quickly. "In fact, yes, I do seem to recall him mentioning something about bandits. I'm terribly forgetful, is all, and-"

He stopped his stammering when his father took a step closer, and moved his hand to his shoulder.

"Thaddius," Loren said solemnly. "Do you remember what I once told you about your brother. About lying for him."

"Yes." Thaddius swallowed. How could he forget? It was the only time he'd ever seen his father angry at _him._ They'd been in the training yard, one of those rare moments not long after they'd returned from the islands where Loren had come to watch his boys spar with Ser Tywin. Damon had been miserable all week, something had happened that he wouldn't talk about, something involving their father, and a lord's daughter, and _her_ father, and Thaddius felt badly about the whole thing. He hated when he couldn't make his brother smile.

Tywin had set them on each other, as he was wont to do. Thaddius could have bested Damon with one hand behind his back. Sometimes he did. But that day their father was watching, and Damon seemed to need a victory, and so he pretended to fall for the feint.

"I know what you did," Loren had told him afterwards, pulling him aside and grabbing hold of his shoulders in a way that'd made Thaddius nervous. He'd hardly known him then. Loren was a stranger when Thaddius returned West, like the rest of his family left at Casterly Rock. He'd never admit it to either of them, to Damon or to Loren, but whenever tasked with recalling his mother, Alannys was the first image to swim into view, not Gwynesse, not the woman he'd seen for the last time as a boy of three.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he'd lied, foolishly. Loren Lannister could always tell a lie.

"You let him best you. I was born a second son, too, Thaddius. For as long as he lived, my brother cast his shadow over me. You are my son. If I ever see you step willfully into your brother's shadow, I will make sure it is the last step you take. Do not lie to me, Thaddius, and most of all do not lie for him."

Standing there in the Round Room with his father's hand on his shoulder, much more gently now than it had been then, Thaddius forced a nervous smile. It all seemed so very silly, suddenly. When he donned his White Cloak, he'd thought himself stepping into the sun, but now he spent his days standing behind his brother. He'd learned firsthand that Kings cast very large shadows.

"I'm sorry," he said. "He did not tell me of any Burning Hand's Men. What would you like me to do, Father?"

Loren straightened the pauldrons of Thaddius' cloak, and regarded him with something that might have been approval. "I want you to eradicate them," he said, and then he was gone, moving for the door.

"I expect the issue will be resolved by the time I return," he said as he walked.

"Where are you going?" Thaddius called after him.

Loren opened the door and stood framed in the stone archway for a moment.

"Casterly Rock," he said. "I have some business to settle there, some things to retrieve. I trust the realm won't fall apart in my absence."

The last remark seemed like it could have been a question, and Thaddius regarded his father with hesitancy, debating whether or not he should offer an answer. His chance was lost, however, when Loren departed, and the guard standing sentry at the door pulled it shut.

Thaddius looked at the book upon the table for a long moment, thinking of his empty page.

_...Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, who slew the Burning Hand's Men at the Stoney Sept, who brought the Riverlands to heel for the approval of his father, who for all his wisdom seemed to have a very shallow understanding of light and shadow._

He shoved the book again. It landed open face down on the floor, its ancient pages now bent and crumpled.

**\- A BOY -**

The streets in Volantis had never lacked for blood, but these days, they were positively dripping in it. Since the revolt, the cobbled roads had been host to a thousand petty battles and small miseries, as the would be conquerors took their spoils. The boy knew the worst of these well enough, far more than his three and ten years should have allowed.

But if it was a choice between the horrors of the street and the feel of the iron once more around his neck, then it was a simple one.

He sped through the darkened lanes of the low city as fast as his slim body would carry him, mud splashing up his legs as he did so. When he'd been with Maars, he had been kept clean, as a prized possession should be. He was thankful for the filth, for grime was freedom, grime kept the silver in his hair from being apparent.

The bindings around his arm itched, though. He had cauterised the wound himself, but the bandage would need to be changed again. Yolano would help. The old man owned an inn over Spice Street, and always paid a copper more for the fish the boy pulled out of the Rhoyne than they were worth. Once, he had awoken to his filthy beard and an unwelcome hand, but when he met the innkeep's eyes the man slunk off ashamed.

Since then, he'd taken his lodgings on a roof overlooking Broad Street, beneath a rusting, old still that stunk of sweet brandy. It kept the boy hidden from the night stalkers though, no matter the smell.

He ached to be back in his hideout. The pain from his wanderings around the bleeding city had moved deep into his calves. Maybe tonight he would get a little brandy of his own to keep from feeling them.

The boy dodged a crowd of revelers, freedmen in filthy finery most likely stolen off the corpses of masters. One of them, an ash colored man with a hanging crown of pearls, shouted something garbled his way, followed by a stream of obscenities as he pulled a blood marked manhood from a fringed tokar.

Barely looking back, the boy leapt over a wall ahead, beginning to cross a precarious support from the neighborhood of stepped houses by the Rhoyne to the bazaars that circled the western wall. A swing and a roll brought him down to the market below, a few fires burning even now in glass lamps and windows as the strange merchants who hawked their wares at this ungodly hour kept their vigil of the dark clothed and exotic clientele that frequented, smelling of rot and foreign incense.

Findae, a bright boy of five and ten and one of the other runaways that had collected amongst the potshops and beggars' holds since the chaos had begun, said that at this time a man could buy anything he wanted. He had spoken of trinkets from Asshai that cursed their owners to go insane, or brindled skin from Sothoryos that would cause anyone who touched it to dream of jungles and hidden temples half a world away. The nut brown former slave had warned not to go unless prepared for meats of a more _difficult_ sort were highly prized. The boy knew Findae was just worrying though, which made him smile. Findae was handsome in a common sort of way, and he loved how he worried, but Findae didn't know fear like the boy.

It wasn't weather beaten travelers, or lacquered masks that frightened him, as he walked swiftly around an impossibly tall woman who jangled from half a hundred chains. It was a gate that locked at night, and a smokey room whose door never opened. Sometimes it was a white scaled monster, descending from cloud of ash to breathe a fire that would swallow his whole world. Other times it was a woman, silver haired like him and fiercely beautiful, standing at the summit of a stairway of blood leading up to the Merchant's House.

A voice pulled him back to the present, low and musical, like water over rocks deep underground. It stirred memories of light and silk.

"A boy has a future," it said from an open tent that flickered red inside.

Findae would have taken his hand and led him far away, but Findae was not here. Something about the unseen voice seemed right within the boy's head, a feeling he could not adequately describe, like the smell of rain or the taste of air.

So, despite himself, he entered.

The tent was open on one side, alone amongst the market, with a view of the hills beyond the wall. Propped up amongst brass and bronze that hung from the ceiling was a woman, sitting in a deep, low backed chair. At least, it seemed to be a woman. Her hair was gone, and scars lined her cheeks. In the low light which came from an open stove, her wrinkles, of which there were many, looked as dark as the Black Walls.

She waved him forward with hands stained blue and green. As he came close, the boy felt for the weight of the daggers concealed beneath the blue fabric which held his tunic together. Curved and honed, they had tasted blood enough times that even the most shadowed enemies held no threat anymore.

She inhaled from a stinking bowl that smoked and sputtered, and turned to look at him properly. Her eyes were ever changing in the low fireflight, but they looked a thousand times more alive than the woman.

"Mother Mae sees you, boy," she intoned, grasping for his face. "She sees where you go, she sees what you will see."

Her outstretched hand gripped his face, and all at once she let out her breath, covering him in a cloud of bittersweet smoke.

"Runaway, hiding boy. Living in brass, you know nothing of what comes."

Her eyes opened once more now, and the boy saw they were a thousand leagues away.

"You still don't know it yet, but I see you. I see you at the head of a glittering host, beside something that is now broken and weak, but will be wrought in steel. You will find this beast that swims through the sea, whose fathers treated with Merlings. He will give you three gifts, first a pale stone, then a banner, and then a bed. You will weep salt tears when he gives you that one."

The woman seemed to barely move her mouth, yet the sounds that came filled the tent enough that the boy was sure someone would hear.

"You will escape the thundering hooves, but the city will not. First the dragon's flame, then the stampeding horses. You will see the living wonder, although it will tear you from the arms of he who loves you best. You will stand before Princes, Queens. Steel will be his crown, iron will be her throne."

A snap came from the stove as a log cracked and fell, sending up sparks like fireflies, and the canvas grew darker. The boy could smell the sour breath of the old woman as her face came closer to his own.

"All this, boy, but first blood."

She seemed to stop then, her eyes closing. Outside the tent, a faint cry could be heard. Then another. Screaming on the hills. Sparks, brethren to those within, suddenly came into view on the dark hills beyond the walls. Soon, more joined them until it seemed that a river of the torches was streaming towards the city.

Suddenly, the woman's eyes opened once more and her voice rose, trembling.

"A man will take you on his ship tonight. Let him. I leave you with these warnings Aedan, who was of Ormollen: You must find home, else be lost like so much driftwood. You must find driftwood, else be lost to the brothers. You must find the brothers, else be lost to your home. These I give you and no more. The stallion comes. You must be away."

She did not have to ask twice. The boy knew fear, but Aedan knew the cry of Dothraki screamers, and the clangor of alarm bells. Quick as the horses that sped towards the bleeding city, Aedan Ormollen set off to the harbor.

**\- NATHANIEL -**

The morning dawned warm and sticky on King's Landing. It was Spring now, or so they said, but the city felt as humid as a summer day, the kind that rarely touched the Vale of Arryn. At home the air was always crisp and cool, thin as pulled cotton in the mountains and the valleys where they used to spend their leisure days hawking - Father, James, and him. James was always the better of them, but his humility made him impossible to loathe for it.

"Luck, Nate," he'd told him once, after his falcon made three kills to Nathaniel's only. "Don't get so down on yourself. It wasn't a competition. We are brothers, not nemeses."

He'd been right, of course. It never was a competition with James.

Nathaniel stood on the gallows when the doors dropped and the traitors hung, as stone faced as ever. He'd never hanged women when he held his station in the Eyrie, but these were no longer James Arryn's laws he kept, nor the Vale's. They were the crown's. They were Loren Lannister's.

The Tyrells were the last of the highborn prisoners of war. Baelor, Troy… Maude. All but Mellara dangling from the rafters, and that was likely more about politics than compassion. Highgarden would need a lord, and that lord would need a wife. Too young for marriage, Mellara would remain in the Capital until such a time as her last sister could be found. And if Meredyth could not be found, well, as Lord Loren put it, Mellara "wouldn't be a girl forever."

He left the gallows once the traitors were pronounced dead, and made his way back to the Red Keep in that stuffy carriage with the little slatted windows.

_A box, is what it is. Feels like a coffin._

Navigating the crowds took time, and when he finally reached the castle yard the Master of Laws felt as though he were suffocating.

_It's the humidity, _he told himself, but when he passed beneath the shadow of the Tower of the Hand on his way to Maegor's Holdfast, acutely aware of its emptiness, of Lord Lannister's absence and the King's absence, he knew that it was duty.

_I was a second son and then a second in command, and now I am the first not only for the Vale but for all of Westeros until one of the Lions returns._

The gardens were silent, and Nathaniel followed the familiar stone path that led him through the maze of tall flowering bushes and the elm, alder, and black cottonwood trees that stood tall and proud overlooking the Blackwater Rush.

_The only place of peace in this whole damned city._

Smokeberry vines tangled themselves around the limbs of a giant oak tree, and Nathaniel took his place on a dusty bench beneath its branches, closing his eyes and resting his back against the trunk. A dragonfly hummed amicably somewhere in the leaves above his head.

"Lord Arryn." A voice broke the silence, soft as velvet. Nathaniel opened his eyes to find Alyce Connington standing before him. Her hair fell in loose waves all the way down to the small of her back, as vibrant as the crimson blooms of the tea roses. She offered him a sweet smile.

"May I join you?"

Nathaniel's gaze flitted over the woman's figure, lingering at the curve of her waist accentuated by the fabric of her scarlet gown. A single ruby shone at her chest, sparkling in the afternoon sun, and his eyes were drawn to it at once to its mesmerizing glow.

"Of course, my lady," he managed to stammer. "Please, sit."

She carried a worn book in her arms and bowed her head politely before placing the tome down on the bench between them. Alyce gathered her many silken skirts and took her seat gracefully, the smile never straying from her comely face.

"My brother said you like to walk these paths," she told him as she smoothed the wrinkles from her dress. "He warned me that I might come across you."

_Right, Orys_, Nathaniel reminded himself. _Connington, Master of Coin for the Small Council. The very large, very imposing Master of Coin_. He shifted uncomfortably on the bench.

"I like the peace," he told her, keeping his gaze lowered politely. "It helps to clear my head. And you, Lady Alyce?"

"I enjoy the company," she said. He chanced a glance at her then from the corner of his eyes. Her hair shone brilliantly in all the colors of a sunset, and her skin was as pale as milk. "And the quiet, too, of course."

Nathaniel blinked as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ears.

"What were you reading, if I may?" he asked her.

Alyce brought the book back into her lap once again. Her place was marked by the green stem of a flower. "The Seven Pointed Star," she said.

"Oh?" Nathaniel lowered his gaze to study the worn cover. "Pious, are you?"

"Devout."

She spoke of the Maiden and the Mother, then, and of how her days were spent in prayer while Orys was away at war. The words were sweet, but Nathaniel had heard the same from the mouth of every Septa he'd known, and soon found himself watching her lips as she spoke, lost in every bewitching smile.

"That's… intriguing, my lady," he said at last when he found her staring back at him expectantly.

"And you, Lord Arryn?" she asked. "What is it that you pray for?"

"My family," he said after a thoughtful pause. "Elyssa, Dake and Theon."

_Catelyn and Mya, too._

The thought of his bastard shamed him, and he turned from Alyce to study the dust that had settled over his boots. If she noticed his embarrassment, though, she did not confess.

"And your betrothed, surely?" she asked. "Lyanna Stark?"

"Lyanna…" he said with a frown. "My brother's widow. Yes, of course. Of course I pray for her, too."

Alyce gave him a knowing smile.

"I know that look well," she told him. "My brother felt the same way about his wife. He came to enjoy her presence after a time, I suppose, and maybe by the end they were even friends. There was never any love between them, though. Never any passion or the things we hear of in the stories we were told as children. You know, Jenny and Duncan, Florian and Jonquil, Jaehaerys and Alysanne… the sort of thing the bards write about."

"I've never been fond of bards," he said in a sullen tone. "They're nothing but useless wastes of coin."

Alyce said nothing in reply, and a long moment passed where Nathaniel began to worry he'd perhaps offended her or worse, given her reason to leave. He searched his mind desperately for something to say to keep her sitting beside him.

"Do you have a betrothed?" he asked her before cursing himself inwardly. _Way to keep the conversation light._

Nathaniel was relieved to hear her laugh.

"Not yet, my lord, but my brother has spoken of a few potential matches that could prove suitable. It will require a powerful man, though, now that Orys has earned himself a seat on the Small Council and the title of Lord Paramount."

"Oh?" he inquired. "Do any of these potential matches interest you?"

"Not in the slightest." She laughed, and when he continued to stare at her unblinking, she then sighed. "Such decisions, however, are outside my control. No, it matters very little what my thoughts are on the matter. I will marry one of these ingratiating stormlords, unless, of course, another man offers himself to my brother as a better match. Someone who outranks them all, someone more powerful…A man of the highest honor."

Before Nathaniel could stammer out a reply, a new voice interrupted.

"Lord Arryn." Nathaniel hadn't heard Ser Petyr of Gulltown approach, so enraptured was he by the Lady Connington's presence. Now he looked to the knight in his service with loathing.

"What is it, Ser Petyr?"

"You're needed in the Small Council chambers," the young man explained. "There's some sort of dispute involving a goatherd and Crownlands lord."

Nathaniel rose with tremendous reluctance, and then looked down at Alyce. "I apologize, my lady," he told her gruffly. "It seems that duty calls."

"Until next time, Lord Arryn," she said with a wink.

She smiled at him, before turning back to her book. Alicent set the flower she'd been using to hold its place beside her on the bench where he had just sat.

It was a single rose, red as her lips.

**\- ULRICH -**

The Water Gardens were only three leagues from Sunspear, but never had such a distance seemed so great.

Ulrich wore a cloak of obsidian silk about his shoulders, fastened with clasps of onyx to a pauldron of leather dyed as dark as hide could be. The black seemed only fitting, he'd decided, since his White Cloak had been removed. To wear the purple of his house would feel wrong. That was Martyn's cloak, now.

_Besides, I look dashing in black._

The cape and the armor both had been gifted him by the Princess. He'd arrived in Dorne not a fortnight past, on a ship from King's Landing far more comfortable than the war galley that brought him there. The reception at Sunspear had likewise been much warmer than his cell in the Red Keep, though not nearly as warm as Sarella's bed.

"Stay," she'd said, curled up naked beside him in the tangles of her bed's silken sheets.

She'd thrown a feast for his return, an elaborate affair with seven courses in honor of his knightship, including lamb, serpent, and stuffed Dornish peppers sauteed in snake venom. He'd sat in a place of honor beside the Princess on a dais that looked out over the candlelit hall of lords and ladies, and for a few hours he felt a Prince, maybe even a King.

"The champion of Dorne!" she'd called him in her toast. "A hero! Ser Ulrich Dayne, the Dragonslayer!"

She had forgotten to mention the Sword of the Morning, but he would forgive her that much. Sarella wore that gown with the low plunging neckline, and the criss cross pattern on the back made of thin chords. It was easy to forgive her in that dress.

"Stay for what?" he had asked in reply as they laid entwined that night, the gown forgotten somewhere near the door to her chambers. "My brother's return? You expect me to stand stoic at your side while the Lannister brings him here in chains? While you swear your life to his before all of Dorne? While you carry, birth, and raise his children to be Princes and Princesses? No, Sarella. You cannot ask me to stay."

"I can command you to," she said, tracing the burn mark on his arm that the Queen's champion had left. "I am your liege."

Ulrich smirked at that, and rolled her onto her back, letting her long chestnut ringlets splay out across the pillow. "I am your lover," he told her, pressing his nose against hers.

She pouted. "So then stay. Protect me from this Lion."

He scoffed at that. "The day you need protecting from the likes of Damon Lannister is the day my sword arm rots."

But Sarella had ways of convincing him. Some of them involved her hands, most involved her mouth.

"Stay," she'd commanded, and so he had.

For now.

The armor she'd gifted him was light and a cowl about his head kept the sun from his eyes. It too was black, like his mood.

Ulrich's sand steed plodded along the stone road at a leisurely gait, just behind that of the Allyrion Sarella named Captain of her guard. Ulrich despised the view. Aero was a big man, throwing him in shadow, and a stupid one.

_A brick wall, with all the personality of one, too. Gods know what she sees in him._

The Princess was three horses ahead, just out of his range of hearing, riding beside the King and his knights. He could see the two rulers- Sarella in her loose fitting gown of yellow chiffon, Damon all in red- by the way their diadems each caught the sunlight.

Snippets of conversation barely reached his ears. Something about castles, something about loyalties, something about banners. Ulrich had learned to tune out political speak. Gods knew he heard enough of it in his time serving Harys. Lacing honey with venom, slipping threats into compliments, such speech was never his talent. His song was one of swords, not sycophancy.

He heard something sounding suspiciously like "Dayne" ahead of him, followed by laughter, and scowled. Through the space between Captain Aero's hulking form and the lesser knight at his side, he saw Sarella reach out to touch Damon's arm.

Ulrich dug his heels into his horse and barrelled past the men in front of him.

"My Princess!" he called out in greeting. She turned in the saddle to see him approach, and her comely face was painted with annoyance and confusion.

"Ser Ulrich," she said testily, when he arrived at her right hand side. "What is the meaning of this interruption?"

"I thought I heard you call for me," he answered quickly, surprised by her irritation. _You were happy enough to see me last night._

"No, Ulrich," the Lannister said, raising an eyebrow. "We were discussing the future Prince of Dorne, a matter hardly of any concern to a bodyguard."

"My brother is of plenty concern to me," Ulrich retorted, drawing himself up in the saddle. "If you think you can-"

"_Ulrich,_" Sarella snapped. "If _you_ think you can still force that sword of yours wherever you would like, then you are sorely mistaken. I am speaking with the King of Westeros, and I will not suffer your interruptions."

"I don't think that the Princess is in need of your protection at this moment, Ser Dayne," Damon added with a smile. "I assure you she is quite safe with me and Sers Elbert and Danny. Why don't you find something else to do?" He looked him up and down and then suggested, "Write a sad poem in your journal."

Ulrich glanced at the two White Cloaks with disdain. _Five minutes, _he thought. _That's how long it would take me to defeat Piper. Two, for Flowers. _King Harys' guard was far superior. Florent, Oakheart, _him._ Ulrich knew these two from his time at tourneys. He wouldn't suffer either as a squire.

"Ulrich," Sarella said, in a tone that brokered no argument. "You can join us once we arrive at the Gardens. There is no need for you to ride beside me now."

Ulrich waited long enough to give Damon a lasting scowl, then slowly let his horse fall back, until Allyrion passed him brusquely and he was alongside the lesser knights of the retinue again. Ulrich fished in his saddlebag for his whetstone, and set to work sharpening his dagger as he rode, perfectly balanced on his steed. The Captain Aero shot him a quizzical look over one massive shoulder, but Ulrich only scraped the stone all the more loudly.

The dirk was razor sharp by the time they reached the Water Gardens but he kept at it, even when the Princess and the King dismounted and began to walk, even as he did the same, falling into step dutifully behind them.

"These gardens were raised by Prince Maron," Sarella was telling Damon. She walked slowly with her arm looped through his, the train of her gown trailing across the pink marble courtyard that had welcomed them. "Centuries ago to-"

"To mark the union of Dorne to the Seven Kingdoms," Ulrich finished.

Sarella glanced over her shoulder at him only briefly. "Yes. No man has ever been able to defeat Dorne," she said, turning back to Damon. "Not even with dragons. The only way this kingdom became part of Westeros was-"

"Through marriage," Ulrich explained. "Princess Daenerys Targaryen wed Maron Martell and thus the six became seven."

"I know the story well enough, Ulrich," Sarella said, turning to glare at him. "I will handle it, thank you."

Ulrich lapsed into a sullen silence as she went on, no longer addressing him but instead the man whose arm she hung on. He dragged the stone across his blade.

"I've lost my train of thought," Sarella declared to Damon. "In any case, I will not bore you with all this talk of ancient history. Let me show you the beauty of Dorne."

Blood orange trees swayed gently in the breeze off the ocean, and the party passed trickling water features and walked beneath a wide stone arch into the open manse. Its windows were paneless, sheer curtains barely concealing the view of the sea behind them, and the rooms were filled with sunshine and potted plants.

Ulrich h adn't been here since he was a boy. He let the dagger and the stone fall to his sides as Sarella guided the group through the various chambers, taking in the sights of his childhood. Fluted pillars formed a gallery leading to a triple archway, and the Princess led them up to the terrace, Elbert and Danny both shouldering their way ahead of Ulrich to ascend the stairs behind the King and Sarella.

"Cutthroats," Ulrich grumbled.

A small table was set on the balcony overlooking the gardens with flatbread and wine, and Damon reached eagerly for a chalice once seated.

Sarella smiled coyly. "I've been told sour red is your favorite," she said, taking her own. "It's mine, too."

Ulrich hoped it was poisoned.

"Now," she began, "let us discuss what you have come here to discuss, King Damon. Peace, and the future."

"Yes," Damon nodded. His White Cloaks stood behind him, and Ulrich stood behind the Princess, and he wondered how he would go about killing the three of them. _I could throw the dagger at Piper, then use my sword on Flowers, save Lannister for last, he's unarmed, wouldn't take much effort._

"Peace," answered Damon, "is what I would wish for. Peace and seven kingdoms united. I have heard whispers that Dorne seeks to push for independence, Princess, but I aim to sway you from such a foolish path."

Sarella kept her smile as she leaned back in her seat, cup in hand, and arched an eyebrow. "Foolish, Your Grace?"

"Foolish," Damon repeated. "The Sun and the Spear cannot hope to stand alone against six unified kingdoms. Your army is large in number, Sarella, and you showed them off in your city in full splendor for my arrival, but it is not the largest, and you are a peninsula that lacks a fleet. The lands and waters that surround you and your most valuable trade routes are sworn to the crown."

His chalice wasn't yet empty, but Damon refilled it anyway.

"You act as though you still entertain the idea," he said, "but we both know that's not the case. You have no choice but to bring your people into the fold. Your hope is to make the agreement something easy enough for your lords to swallow."

Ulrich scraped the blade against the whetstone. Piper moved his hand to the hilt of his sword, but Flowers seemed amused. _We'll see who's grinning when I drive Dawn through your black heart one day. _Ulrich met his gaze and smirked.

"You are a guest at my wedding, Your Grace," Sarella replied evenly. "Surely you come bearing gifts?"

"I have given you gifts, Princess. A fine ship with a fine name, in honor of you and your soon to be lord husband," he said. "I also gave you that husband's life, and the life of your cousin. My queen gifted you the life of Dorne's finest sword." He raised his cup to Ulrich then, with a smile that hardly seemed genuine. "With all these presents, would you truly demand more concessions from me?"

"The ship is lovely," Sarella admitted, "but a personal barge and the lives of three are hardly worth the allegiance of tens of thousands of Dornish men and women. However, the return of Dornish hostages does go some ways in convincing my people that the lion truly isn't as cruel and merciless as history has written him to be. Now, if I could show my people that the lion is also _generous _to those who fight for him, that might indeed sway some lords from paths that are, as you say, foolish. Surely your Grace has a castle or two that he has pried so valiantly from disloyal hands, one in need of a new and trusted liege lord?"

Damon laughed. "My lady, if I recall correctly, Dorne did not fight for me. No, to my best recollection she remained silent, her spears hidden behind the sealed Boneway, simultaneously breaking an oath to House Baratheon _and _refusing to bend the knee to House Lannister. You call yourself trusted, but I only see opportunism. You did not side with your King because you knew him weak and destined to lose. You did not side with me because you weren't certain something better wouldn't come along. Now, with the realm at peace and united under the banners of my house and those of House Targaryen, and no other kingdom flocking to your cause, you seek to join the victors and share in the prizes of battles you did not help win?"

He looked at her with a pretend lecturing frown, "Come, be reasonable, Princess. I know you are new to your seat and young, but even a woman who has not known battle can recognize that the spoils of war do not go to those who do not participate."

Ulrich wondered if it would be impolite to offer to kill him. _I could always whisper it in her ear._ He decided that this is exactly what he would do, but when he bent down Sarella raised her hand in a halting gesture, never once breaking her eye contact with the King.

"You would do well not to condescend me, King Damon Lannister," she said. "I have been on my throne for perhaps a moon less than you have sat on yours, and a woman need not decapitate a man in combat in order to be able to understand the politics of war. What you forget, Your Grace, is that you are not negotiating with a single woman, or even a princess. You are negotiating with all of Dorne. It is true that the seventh kingdom cannot stand against the united six, but with a formidable army and a strategically defended capital in a part of the realm some northern men cannot physically tolerate, it can be more than just a thorn in a new monarch's side."

Damon seemed unfazed. He crossed an ankle over his knee and threw his arm around the back of his chair casually, as though they were two good friends having a pleasant discussion on the weather. Ulrich dragged his dagger's blade across the stone.

"How would it look to your newly won allies," Sarella went on, "for a conqueror king to be unable to rule all seven kingdoms? They already call you cub and boy, and everyone is watching to see how you will fail. Your treaty with me is your first test as king, and your success or failure here will define your reign."

Damon turned his gaze to the shoreline, just beyond the gardens below. There were children playing in the surf and lounging by the pools. He nodded in their direction. "Rickon Baratheon. That is the greatest concession I will make, and a greater one than you deserve. Tell me, Princess, did you plan to extort more from me? Next you will demand a seat on my small council in exchange for all of the help you provided at Stonehelm."

He reached for the pitcher of wine, but Sarella caught his hand and held it in her own.

"Well, Your Grace..." She tilted her head and smiled. "The Martell family enjoyed the respect of the Stag king before you, and I know that Dorne would see its alliance with the crown as not whole unless there were some evidence as to the closeness of our relationship with the man now seated on the throne."

"Princess, I have heard nothing of your terrific sense of humor, perhaps I should dismiss my Master of Whispers." Damon looked down at their entwined hands, then he looked up. He looked directly at Ulrich.

The moment lasted hardly a second, before the King turned his gaze back to the Princess, but the look on his face, that faint, knowing smile… Ulrich felt his grip on the dagger tighten.

"The Stag on the throne valued your house little beyond the marriage to your aunt," Damon told Sarella. "When Queen Gianna passed, he could have strengthened your alliance to the throne by marrying another Martell. Perhaps you, when you came of age. But he did not, he sought a rose instead, a most grievous insult to your family. He could have made your lord father his Hand, but neither did he do that. He chose a pretender Targaryen and alienated his highest lords with the decision. Baratheons are many things, Princess Sarella. They are tall, they are strong, they are boastful, but they are not intelligent men. Your King of Feasts cared very little for his southern alliance."

Sarella rose, keeping hold of his hand, and came around the table to stand beside him.

"Baratheons are foolish, yes," she agreed. "And what are Lannisters? They are proud, arrogant, cruel." She pouted, toying with a ring on one of his fingers. "Handsome, vain, rich… But not foolish, no. You understand the importance of peace between Dorne and the Iron Throne."

Ulrich's knuckles were bone white when she caressed the King's cheek. "A seat, Your Grace," she said. "King's Landing is so cold compared to Dorne. Would you not want some warmth at your table?"

She pulled him gently from his chair, and he swept the carafe of wine from the table with his free hand.

"I promised I would show you the beauty of Dorne," Sarella said, leading him back into the manse.

Ulrich felt a rage boiling up inside him as he turned to watch them go, but when Damon looked over his shoulder at him, smiling that smug smile and lifting the pitcher of wine in a mocking toast… _That_ was when he scraped the dagger so hard against the whetstone it slipped, and left a long neat gash across his palm.

**\- AESLYN -**

Aeslyn ran her fingers along the black horsehair couch, and sniffled.

The apartments in the Maidenvault were small and sparsely furnished, the upholstery seeming ill cared for over the centuries, ignored and forgotten like the chambers themselves. The rooms were lit dimly by torches held in rusted claw sconces.

Yet the vault was not without its comforts. The linens were new. The food brought to her was the same as she would have taken in her own dining room. There were paintings, old ones done in turbid oils of forgotten scenes - a dozen dragons soaring over a grand tournament, a painting of Baelor the Blessed that seemed to scrutinize her every move, an artist's depiction of the Maiden, smiling happily with flowers in her hair.

But the Maidenvault was not her home. The bath chamber was small and cramped, the tiles on the floor chipped and cracked in places. The solar was dusty, the spines of the tomes on its shelves crumbling. The bedchamber was not hers. The chest of drawers, the tables, the horsehair couch - they were not the furniture she had become accustomed to. The bed was not the one she shared with Damon.

The tears had dried on her porcelain cheeks, but her eyes were still red and puffy from crying. For what, she wasn't sure. For Caelon? For herself? For her marriage?

Damon had come to see her only briefly, to tell her the same thing Robert already had- that he was sending her away. She was to go to Fair Isle, where "the climate would suit her better" and she would be able to spend the remainder of her pregnancy "well tended to."

He had spoken as though she were some plant, a delicate flower that the city of King's Landing was somehow making wilt.

_I am not delicate,_ Aeslyn knew. _I am a lion._

In any event, his words were empty. Lies. All lies. He was sending her away because he was angry with her, though for what she couldn't say. Was it because she had that serving girl flogged? The one she'd sworn had made eyes at him? Or perhaps it was that time she had ordered the Targaryen banners torn down and burned in the throne room. When Damon returned from war he complained that the chamber smelled like "a burnt dog" whenever Loren made him sit the iron chair. Or mayhaps what made him so angry were the flowers she had filled their bedchamber with, the ones that made him sneeze for even a week after they were removed, but how was she supposed to know that he was allergic to honeysuckle?

Maybe it was all the petty fights, the squabbling over which pet name he ought to call her, which color gown best suited her complexion, or which jewelry most brought out the violet in her eyes.

She would never know. He was so difficult to make happy.

After Damon, her next visitors came few and far between. Servants brought meals, but answered no questions. The coal boy made sure the braziers stayed lit. Women changed the linens on the bed and saw to it that she had clean gowns. A maester came daily to ask how she fared, and to grope the swell in her stomach with "aha"s and curious frowns. Aeslyn counted the sunsets and sunrises she saw through the keep's narrow windows.

On the seventh one, the old man came.

His hair and beard were long and silver, but beneath a wrinkled face was a body with fight in it still, a sinewy if thin frame swaddled in rainbow robes. He was a stranger to Aeslyn, but the man who accompanied him was not.

Thaddius was smiling a smug smile that Aeslyn did not like one bit. His straight blonde hair was swept tidily from his face, and his eyes were like two dazzling emeralds in contrast to the snowy white of his armor. Tall, taller than his brother, he looked down his nose at her with a mocking expression when she rose from the couch to greet them, one that seemed to imply he knew some great secret she did not.

Aeslyn hated not knowing a secret.

"Seven's blessings, Your Grace," the old man greeted with a bow.

"Who are you?" she snapped in reply, moving her hands protectively over her belly and glancing from the Lord Commander to the stranger.

"Apologies, Your Grace." He bowed again, this time only that silver head of his. "I am Ser Laenor Velaryon, the Lord Spiritual to King Damon's Small Council, appointed by His Grace himself."

Appointing a holy man. That seemed like something Damon might do in his cups, or perhaps it was some sardonically issued order made in jest that was then taken for genuine. Aeslyn recalled some meeting with advisors she had interrupted in an indignant rage in order to tell him of a pillow house in the city called the Hidden Lotus that was now boasting to have "whores fit for a king."

"Gods," he had remarked at the table, "you'd best bury that brothel, or I'm like to go visit it."

When the sun rose on the following morning, a team of laborers had already arrived at the Lotus with shovels.

"What do you want?" Aeslyn asked the so-called Lord Spiritual, trying to avoid Thaddius' taunting stare. "If this is about the dragon, I already told Damon that I was sorry, if he would just _listen_ to me and-"

"I'm not here about the dragon, Your Grace." Laenor's old face was solemn.

Thaddius stepped forward then, and unraveled a sheet of parchment with dramatic flair.

"Aeslyn Targaryen," he read, "First of Her Name, Queen _Consort_ to King Damon Lannister, first of _his_ name, you are hereby placed under arrest, charged with treason to the crown, for conducting lewd acts of extramarital promiscuity in-"

"_What did you say?!"_

Thaddius frowned at the interruption, and rolled his paper back up. "You've been fucking a sellsword, Aeslyn," he replied. "Did you think that you could keep it a secret forever?"

Many in her situation might have had the color drain from their faces entirely, but Aeslyn's cheeks only reddened, and her eyes darkened with fury. "How _dare_ you!" she roared. "I have lain with nobody! No one but your brother!"

"Oh, yes," Thaddius sneered. "I know all about how you lie with my brother. I stand outside your damned bedchamber." Now his face too was flushed, and he gripped the paper until it seemed like to tear. "You lying, scheming whore. How many others are there? How many men hold your favor, and which one really got your maidenhead?"

"Lord Commander-"

Thaddius continued over the now nervous looking Lord Spiritual. "My family gave you _everything!_ You were _nothing_ before my father brought you into our house, you ungrateful harlot! And to think I was going to steal you away, and start a life together!"

_This cannot be happening._ Aeslyn staggered backwards, reaching for the arm of the couch to steady herself.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I have been with no one, no one but Damon. I love him. I love him, I swear it. I carry his _child,_ for gods' sake!"

"A trial will determine-" began the Lord Spiritual, but the old man was nearly knocked to the ground when Thaddius shoved past him. He grabbed Aeslyn by the wrist and yanked her to him sharply, drawing a dagger from his belt as he did.

"Why have a trial?" he asked, sliding an arm around her throat as he pressed her back against his armored chest. Aeslyn struggled against the arm, clawing at his plate mail, but went still as a statue once she felt the cold steel against her stomach.

"We can solve this mystery right here, right now," Thaddius said, his voice low and dangerous in her ear. "Why don't I cut her open and we can see for ourselves the child in her belly? Will it have golden curls and green eyes, or a forked blue beard like the Maidensblood?"

"The _Maidensblood?! _You think I bedded the _Maidensblood?!_"

_They don't know,_ she realized. _They know nothing. They cannot prove anything. _Aeslyn began to laugh, until Thaddius pressed the dagger harder, splitting some of the threads of her silk gown.

"I am the Queen!" she declared shrilly. "Let me go at once!"

"Lord Commander, I _insist_ that you do as Her Grace bids," Laenor interrupted with a wavering kind of conviction that Aeslyn was not grateful for whatsoever. She was surprised when Thaddius obeyed after a tense and pregnant pause, and for a moment thought that it was only so he could turn the knife on the holy man, but the younger Lannister returned to his side as though the outburst had not occurred.

He withdrew his paper once more. "You are permitted to call witnesses, and they will be procured by the Lord Spiritual on your behalf, as you are forbidden from leaving the-"

"Damon," she interrupted, trembling as she struggled to catch her breath. Her hands found their way to her belly, and she covered it protectively. "I call Damon, and Ser Daelys, and-"

"Damon isn't _here_," Thaddius told her, his annoyed frown the same one might don if a companion were late for a meal.

"Not here?" _No. He has to be here._ _He will defend me, he will protect-_

"Damon is on his way to Dorne," Thaddius explained, "to treat with the kingdom and attend the Princess' wedding. I am leaving too, as it so happens, for the Riverlands. While _he_ drinks and feasts and fucks Dornish whores, _I _will be slaying cutthroats and robbers and murderers and rapists. Maybe if you weren't too busy spreading your legs for sellswords you'd know more about what's going on in the realm."

_No. No, no, no…_

"Ser Daelys will speak on your behalf, then," Thaddius said, rolling the paper back up again and turning to go. "If there's no one else, we had best be going. The trial will be held on the morrow and Lord Laenor has much to prepare, as he will be officiating."

The Lord Spiritual looked at her with soft eyes full of sympathy, before bowing and following after the Lord Commander.

"Wait!" Aeslyn called, hand outstretched as if to will them turn around. Thaddius shot her a lazy glance over his shoulder, pausing with a sigh just before the door. "I've thought of someone else!"

"Who is it?" the Lannister demanded.

Aeslyn swallowed. "Robert," she said. "Robert Manderly."

**-DANAE-**

The scent of roasted snake wafting through the Spear Tower was beginning to make Danae's stomach turn. She pulled at the low scooping neckline of her gown of black and crimson Myrish lace, trying in vain to raise it higher. The stones on the necklace from the Princess were cold against her bare skin, and Danae let her fingers graze the pearcut ruby, her only source of comfort on this night.

Everything around her was strange - foreign faces, foreign foods, foreign music. Summer had vanished with the first Dornishman who caught her eye and the Grand Maester was nowhere to be found. Only James' whereabouts remained known to her, and that was only because she could feel his eyes on her even from across the room.

_Damn this gown._

At least she had won the battle over her hair. Her long blonde locks were left down, pulled back from her face in two knotted braids joined together behind her head, clasped with silver clips.

Danae sat between strangers at a table facing the floor, where she was afforded a perfect view of the revelers as they danced to instruments she'd never even heard of before. To her left was a woman dressed in green and yellow silks, giggling uncontrollably to herself with a dazed expression on her pretty face, and to her right was a kindly older man in a yellow turban who had called himself Prince Moreo.

The latter had been good at shooing away the men who came to ask her to dance. A few short words, a certain look, and they all slinked away defeated. He winked at her each time they departed, and Danae always gave a grateful smile, but when he excused himself to speak with a friend, she was left without any fortification against the Princess' wedding guests.

"I see the rumors are true."

Danae woke from her daydream to find a silver haired knight in plate standing before her, with violet eyes not unlike her own. "The only thing more dangerous than the Volantene conqueror's dragon is her beauty," he said.

"Do I know you?" She had meant to ask it in the voice Sarella had shown her, the soft, gentle one meant to make all words sound like an invitation, but the words tumbled out as they always did, and her annoyance was plain.

"You have heard of me, undoubtedly," the stranger replied. "I am Ser Ulrich Dayne, the famed Dragonslayer of Dorne, the Sword of the Morning, the man who-"

"Oh," she interrupted. "Yes. I have heard of you, indeed." _The man who killed Aeslyn's dragon. Bastard._ "What do you want?"

He smiled, and bowed at the waist on the other side of the table. "Why, what every man in here wants from the only woman more beautiful than the stars themselves," he said. "A dance."

"I've heard that exact same remark four times already tonight," she replied. "Plus two about the moon, and another comparing me to the first rays of sunlight striking the ocean at dawn. Are all Dornishmen so poetic? Tell me, why would a Dragon wish to dance with a Dragonslayer?"

That seemed to stump Ser Ulrich. Across the room, Danae caught sight of Sarella seated beside her new Prince upon the high dais, garbed in flowing red satin. She and the Princess locked eyes for a moment, and Danae offered a weak smile, only to be met with a dead eyed stare.

_What did I do? _Danae's smile vanished as the Princess rose from her seat. _Oh, gods. She's going to come tell me to talk to the Lannister. No, I'm not ready for that. I've hardly had any wine and-_

"My fair lady!" Ulrich interrupted loudly. "Of all the men in this room, I fear I am the only true-"

Sarella was stepping down from the dais, offering brief pleasantries to her guests as she made her way across the floor to where they were sitting. Danae panicked.

"Fine," she snapped, jumping from her seat. "We will dance."

Ulrich smiled smugly, and Danae nearly tripped over the train of her ridiculous gown in her haste to join him on the floor. The knight pulled her tightly to his chest, close enough that she could smell the scented oils on his neck.

_This was a mistake._

He twirled her wildly around the room, as though he wanted to make sure every last lord and lady saw that the two were dancing, and Danae felt her stomach rolling even more. She had never danced before, and she wasn't certain she was doing it now, either. He whisked her from one place to the next, and it seemed as though her feet hardly touched the ground.

"You have been the talk of the evening, Lady Danae," Ser Ulrich told her, one heavy hand on her waist, the other holding her own.

"Oh?" she asked, trying to tug the neckline of her gown up once more.

"Yes," he said, "The woman who traveled to the Doom and back, the Targaryen who burned Volantis... the Lady Dragon who commands the Second Sons and the Windblown." There was a pause. "...Aren't you curious as to how I know all this?" he asked at last.

"No."

"The Last Dragon,' they call you, and I the Dragonslayer. But I assure you, my lady, I have no intent of slaying you. No, in fact, I meant to swear my blade to you in leal service. That's right, I, the great-"

Danae glanced around the room, desperate for rescue, and caught sight of her own reflection in a great looking glass on the wall nearby. With her hair brushed to shine like molten silver, her gown clinging to a woman's figure, Danae almost did not recognize herself. She seemed so small in the arms of the knight and she looked at his reflection then, only to see that he was doing precisely the same as he spoke to her.

_Oh, for gods' sake._

"Forgive me, Ser Dayne," she said suddenly, breaking free from his grasp. "I have to… I have to tend to feminine matters. Surely you understand what I mean. "

She did not wait for his response, hurrying from the floor as quickly as her legs would carry her, but she did not get far before she felt a hand grip her tightly by the arm.

"What are you doing?" Sarella hissed over the sound of the musicians, pulling her aside as a crowd of drunken noblemen passed by. "You're supposed to be seducing the Lannister, not the Dayne. Do you need me to point him out to you? He's the one with the golden hair, and the bloody crown atop his head."

"I didn't-"

"You didn't," Sarella sneered. "I can see that. What are you waiting for? Aeslyn has been arrested, he received word of it this morning. He's vulnerable. You're beautiful, and you need to- would you stop that?" She swatted Danae's hand away from the gown as she struggled to pull the neckline up.

"You're wasting time," Sarella warned her.

Danae swallowed. "I'm going to speak with him," she lied. "I just… I just need a moment, some air…"

Sarella looked at her suspiciously, but released her grip. "Don't play games, Danae," she warned. "I have more than you can imagine at stake." She left then, disappearing into the crowd of feast goers, and Danae exhaled.

She pushed her way through the masses until she found her escape, two double wide doors leading onto a balcony. Outside, the city of Sunspear was a sea of twinkling lights in the darkness just beyond the curtain walls of the Old Palace.

Danae shivered. Dorne was warm, but her gown was thin and left her back and the sides of her legs exposed.

_Useless_, she thought, rubbing her bare arms. _Did I make a mistake?_ She gazed out over the city. _Edric Baratheon sits vulnerable on Dragonstone, forgotten by all. I could reclaim the island-_

"My lady." An unfamiliar voice interrupted her thoughts, and she looked over her shoulder to see a golden haired stranger standing behind her, grinning as he attempted a sloppy, drunken bow.

_Fuck._

"Were you not taken with the Sword of the Morning? Most women are," he said, coming to stand beside her on the balcony. The Lannister was dressed in a deep crimson brocade, with a swirling gold leaf pattern on his doublet and a cloak of rich red velvet around his shoulders. He was taller than her by a head and a half, and slender, and even with his smirk she couldn't help but find him handsome, loathe as she was to admit it.

_This is the man that warms my throne_. He smelled like wine and sandalwood, and Danae frowned.

"I personally find him rather dull," the King continued, "and I hear that the sword looks much less impressive in the sober light of the morning than those women find it at night."

He laughed at his jape, though Danae did not quite understand, and she watched his green eyes drift from her face to the ruby at her neck. He set his golden chalice to rest on the banister and reached forward to touch the jewel at her throat.

"This is beautiful," he told her, "Is it onyx? No, a gemstone." His gaze fell from the stone and lingered on the plunging neckline of her gown before she swatted his hand away.

"_All you need to do is slip this gemstone into his wine,"_ Sarella had told her. "_Then the throne will be yours, and yours alone."_

"You know your jewels," Danae admitted, speaking for the first time. "And here I thought it was only highborn ladies who troubled themselves with such knowledge."

"I wouldn't be much of a Lannister if I didn't know my precious stones," he told her. "And as to the manner of my lordship, I'd be happy to prove it the same way men prove anything, which is to say, with my sword. Or will you be taking Ser Dayne's offer instead?"

Danae glowered. _Insolent prick_. "It just so happens that Ser Ulrich did offer me his blade," she boasted, straightening her back and allowing herself a smile equally smug to his. "In leal service to my house and name."

"Ser Dayne saw a pretty face and offered it his sword, should that surprise me?" The Lannister shrugged. "So what? I will swear anything to you in that dress, too."

"He did not offer it to me because I'm 'pretty,'" Danae snapped. "He offered it to me because I am a Dragon. Perhaps you couldn't tell, in your drunken state, but I am Danae of House-"

"I know who you are," he interrupted. He turned back to the balustrade and picked up his cup once more. "You're _Aeslyn's _sister." He rolled his eyes, and raised the chalice in a mock toast. "Lady of House Targaryen, the Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms, Mother of the Realm, and Bedmate to Tyroshi Sellswords."

He turned his gaze to the city below and drank, and she watched him closely. _I'm supposed to be seducing him_, Danae remembered. She would not deny he was handsome, but he leaned so heavily against the balcony rail she wondered how he'd managed to stand without it. _Drunken sot._

"I know who you are," she declared.

He didn't look up. "Did the crown give it away?"

"You were made king after the Blackfyre was slain," she retorted. "The news of the usurping followed by the slaying of Aerion reached me all the way in Essos. I must admit, I was shocked to hear that Damon Lannister had taken the throne." She offered him a strained smile. "Stories of your love for whores and wine are widespread."

"Such is life, Lady Danae." Damon grinned. "I have gone from, as you so eloquently put it, a life of 'wine and whores' to being the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms." He glanced over and met her eyes for a brief moment before letting his gaze wander slowly down the rest of her. "And you have gone from being the penniless exile of a shamed house in Sharp Point to, well, the penniless exile of a shamed house now seeking refuge in Dorne."

Danae wondered what it would be like to slap him.

_No. No. You're supposed to be wooing him, not striking him. Say something sweet, something sultry._

"I can understand where your poor opinion of my house comes from," she told him. "I sympathize entirely with you. I'd feel the same way if my wife fucked a sellsword behind my back."

Damon laughed. "Oh, you're clever, Lady Targaryen! But I've bedded washerwomen more clever than you, and with more coin to their name."

"Do you brag about all your conquests?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. "Or just the impressive ones, like washerwomen? I can't say I know many wealthy servants, though if you're paying them to fuck you, I suppose it makes sense. Of course, that wouldn't make them servants, now would it? I believe there's another term used to describe women who fuck for gold. But what do you call the men who pay them, I wonder? I could think of a few words, myself."

Damon stared at her in disbelief for a moment, but his gaze seemed incapable of straying from her breasts for too long. "Kings, I hear," he replied at last, sounding as though he were only half aware he was speaking.

"I bet you pay them to mock you, too," she said. "You seem to enjoy being made a fool by women."

"Is that what you're doing?" the Lannister asked. "Making a fool of me? I do find I quite like it. What else have you got, Lady Danae? This is by far the most interesting conversation I've had all night. Everyone in that room is-"

"An idiot." They both spoke the words at once, and Damon smiled but Danae scowled at him, feeling her cheeks grow hot.

"Well, they're now short one," she spat, wishing more than ever that he'd go away. _This was foolish._ The only idiot at the feast was her, for being so daft as to agree to the Princess' plan. _She wants me to bear this man a son before I kill him, to lie beneath him and then carry his child inside me. Never. I have known him for a minute and I already want to murder him._

"Are they?" he asked, smiling a lazy smile. "Don't let me keep you, Lady Danae. I would hate to deprive the Princess' guests of their entertainment. Besides, I think Ser Ulrich would like another dance."

"I was referring to you," Danae explained, irritated. "I thought Lannisters were supposed to be clever. Though I suppose your father isn't here to explain everything to you, for once. Is it true that he even decides your meals?"

"You may be a pretty thing," Damon admitted, straightening as best he could, and returning his cup to the balcony's ledge. "But to insult the King of Westeros to his face leaves me thinking that you are the fool here. Either that, or a woman bold enough to command the Golden Company."

He leaned in close to her and grinned. "Tell me, Lady Danae, can you swing a sword?" He took her by the hand and raised her arm. "Can you even lift one?"

She pulled away and glared up at his smug smile. "I don't need to. I already command five thousand sellswords who will swing their blades for me."

"You can manage that many?" he asked. "I'm impressed. Did they teach you that in Lys, where you bought them?"

She swung her palm toward his face, but he caught her wrist easily and spun her so that her back was pressed against his chest. She fumed, trying to wrench herself free, but his grip was like iron, surprisingly strong for how slim he was and how unsteadily he had been standing.

"So you do know how to fight!" He laughed. "Ah, but you aren't dressed to be leading any armies, Danae. Myrish lace is so delicate. Tears easily."

He let go suddenly, and Danae shoved him away angrily. She whirled around to see Damon holding up his hands in innocent surrender. "A man has a right to defend himself," he declared, still grinning. "And you'll have to forgive me for being wary of Dragons in particular. I have no mind to be burned twice."

Her skin still seared where he'd touched her, but Danae shivered, a rush of contradictory feelings flooding her at once. Part of her wanted to throttle him, but a bigger part of her wondered how it'd feel if he touched her again.

_He's right_, she realized. _I'm the idiot. I cannot let myself be fooled by a handsome face. _She tried to remember the Princess' counsel. "_Conquering a man is much simpler than conquering a city."_

"Aeslyn was not a dragon." Danae glared at him. "There's a reason they call me the last of them." She was aware of the burning in her cheeks, and it only made her scowl deepen. He could tell, she knew. He could see the flush in her face and it amused him. _Vain Lannister_. He was probably used to having women fawn over him, just as she had grown accustomed to the leering of men.

"I wouldn't expect a man like you to be able to tell the difference," she said. "Do your puppetmasters bring your whores to the keep for you? Or do you spend more time in the brothels than on the throne? It must be hard to choose between the pillowhouse and the winesink."

"Why would it be difficult," he asked, "when my father makes all my decisions for me? You wound me, Danae. I had come here thinking to ask you for a dance, but now I am reconsidering."

She glanced back indoors where the feast carried on, Sarella and Varyo's little birds most likely fluttering about and watching her every move with the King. _I am currently making the choice to cut my own puppet strings, but here is a man who never will_.

"Liar," she named him. "You aren't reconsidering one bit. If I were you I would save my breath. You don't seem capable of dancing in this state, and I haven't the least desire to hold you up. Besides, how would that appear? The Puppet King of Westeros, dancing with his wife's sister, an exile from a- what was it? Broken, penniless house?"

"I have no wife, Danae," the Lannister said, still smiling in the face of all her insults. He stepped towards her, closing the gap between the two of them on the balcony. "Not anymore."

The sounds of merriment from the feast were just a faint echo from where they stood, and she watched the lights from the city below reflected in his green eyes as he leaned in closer to her.

_I cannot take the throne this way._

"I have to go," she said at last, taking a step back away from him. "I would say that I hope you won't take my head for my remarks, but your father isn't here to make that call, so truthfully I'm not concerned."

"I have no quarrel with you, Lady Targaryen. Though with a mouth like yours..." Damon grinned. "I am sure that someone in the Seven Kingdoms will likely find one, if no one has already."

"Well now that I know I can speak to the King of Westeros in such a way, who knows?" she told him. "The opportunities for me and my mouth are truly limitless."

"Lady Danae," Damon said with a smug smile. "I need no assistance in thinking about the limitless opportunities for your mouth."

She felt the familiar flush in her cheeks but he only turned back to the balustrade and the view, leaning against the rail as though his life depended on it. Maybe it did. _I could push him easily enough._ Danae crossed the warm stone balcony in a hurry, full of anger.

_Nothing in this world is worth putting up with the likes of him._

She paused with a hand on the brass knob of the tall door and glanced over her shoulder at him one last time, only to find the Lannister doing the same.

They locked eyes and Danae scowled, then she threw the door open and stormed over the threshold and back into the feast as the sounds of Damon's laughter faded.

**-ARTOS-**

The first rays of dawn peeked over the fortresses of Castle Black that stretched along the top of the Wall, casting a pink tint to the massive block of ice. Artos stared up at the structure in wonder, letting the sword he had been training with drop to his side. For a moment he forgot the bitter winds and the chill that cut through his black cloak down to his bones as he reveled at the beauty of the sight before him.

_Thwack!_

A sharp pain struck his left arm, reminding him that he was in the training yard and that he was spending his morning before the ranging with a recent recruit who was quite eager to prove himself to the Lord Commander.

"_I_ should be going on the ranging." The boy spat the words. "Not _you_. How can you call yourself worthy to fight alongside the dragon? You're not even a real brother."

"Neither are you."

An older man with hair the color of straw was leaning against the fence and watching them spar while he sharpened a dagger against a whetstone.

"You haven't sworn your vows yet, so don't start, Mycah," he said, rolling his eyes. "You're almost as mad as our pampered little Lord Commander."

"Careful, Harwyck," called another man from across the yard. "Don't want anyone to hear you speaking ill of 'His Grace.'"

Artos watched the men laugh while the boy named Mycah turned as red as a beet.

"He'll punish you all," the boy warned. "If he hears you, if you wake the dragon, you'll have to face its mercy. Do you know many merciful dragons?"

The one called Harwyck snorted. "I don't know any dragons at all," he said. "Only a rotten little prince and an even littler lizard he keeps about."

Artos had only glimpsed the Lord Commander's dragon once or twice since his time at the Wall. Harwyck was right, it wasn't particularly impressive in size. Vellath was small, white scaled and seemingly good natured in stark contrast to his ornery master. He spent most of his days roosting atop the Lord Commander's tower, as he did now, watching the activity in the training yard with a lazy sort of interest.

Artos glanced up to Castle Black, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Small or not, meek or not, a dragon was a sight to behold.

"Looking for me?" asked a voice.

Artos turned around to find its source, and quickly bowed.

"Lord Commander," he said. _I should've noticed the yard had gone quiet. _Harwyck had lowered his gaze to his whetstone, the other brothers had taken up their sparring once more, and even Mycah returned to the training dummy, dealing each strike with a dramatic grunt. "I was looking for the dragon."

Rhaegar leveled his violet eyes at Artos, his expression hard for his years. His long silver locks were pulled back behind his head and tied with a crimson ribbon, the same color as the cloak about his shoulders.

"The Dragon is standing right in front of you," he said, and Artos realized that Rhaegar was the only person in the yard not entirely in black. "Let's hope your vision proves better beyond the Wall, or I might not let you swear your vows even if you chose to."

"I'm only here to help," Artos told him. "I plan on going home after the ranging."

The Lord Commander scoffed. "Fine. Suit yourself. Plenty of more _worthy_ men line this Wall. I'm not sure what help you think you can even offer us with such a short service." He threw his cloak over one shoulder and shoved away some of the silver hair that the wind had blown over his face.

Artos met his hard stare. "I was hoping to asses the needs of the Watch in order to see if my brother's house could-"

"Brothers!" Rhaegar turned away from him and raised his arms dramatically to address the men in the yard. Those who had gathered for the ranging were already nearby, and a few others paused in their work only briefly.

"The time has come for the One True Dragon to embark on a journey beyond the wall. Do not fear the horrors that lie beyond Castle Black, brothers, for I, Rhaegar Targaryen, Second of his Name, Lord Commander, Rider of Dragons, Blood of Old Valyria, Unbroken Successor of The Dragon Kings of Old, will protect you all and keep you under the Dragon's wings."

A few men in the training yard scratched their heads at that, but the younger lads stood with rapt attention, Mycah himself somewhat slack-jawed in his reverence.

They set out through the gate in two neat rows, five men each riding behind the Lord Commander on his black stallion. His flowing red cloak made him easy to follow in the wintry world of white beyond the Wall, and Artos rode in silence amongst the brothers, wondering what it meant to have a Targaryen leading the Watch, or if it meant anything at all.

On the third day they came upon a grove of weirwood trees. Artos could have spent the whole day there beneath their pale white boughs, and would have liked to. Instead he asked for only a moment, just to offer his prayers.

Rhaegar laughed in his face.

"Trees haven't any ears," he told Artos with a smirk. "Even the heart ones."

They passed through without stopping.

Rolf had come to him afterwards. He was an older man, well into his forties if Artos had to guess, with a coarse black beard and shaggy, unkempt hair. Rolf was a real brother, sworn and stalwart.

"I asked him the same thing before," he confessed with a sympathetic smile, bringing his horse alongside Artos'. "Got the same reply."

"Have you been on many rangings with the Lord Commander?" Artos asked.

"I've been on every one he's taken," Rolf said. "So, this makes two."

"And his leadership?" Artos pressed. "What did you learn on these rangings?"

"That I'm glad I'm a ranger," he answered. "I'd rather _face _these 'horrors beyond the wall' Rhaegar keeps prattling on about than be stuck in Castle Black listening to his half mad ramblings about them."

On the fifth night, Rhaegar ordered his steward to sleep outside on the frozen ground because the man had 'woken the dragon' by politely suggesting that the Children of the Forest might not actually exist.

_Duty_, Artos reminded himself as he listened to Rhaegar's shouts. _That is why I am here. Not a duty to this man, or any one man, but to _all _men. Duty to the North._

On the seventh night beyond the wall, Artos sat staring into the fire, listening to the men trade stories after having reached the firm conclusion that the Lord Commander was both cruel and mad.

"I can't feel my toes," Gared Rivers announced, staring forlornly at his boots from where he sat beside Artos. Like him, he was only at the Wall temporarily, answering the Lord Commander's call for blades and hands. Most of the other men had already gone to sleep, and only five of them sat around the crudely dug firepit now.

"Don't get this cold down south, does it?" Rolf teased with a small smile. "No worries, Gared, you'll get used to it. I've seen you in the practice yard, you're a tough-"

"Ha!" Rhaegar's guffaw cut him off. "Weak southron boys, greener than summer grass."

"Aren't _you_ from the south, Lord Commander?" It was Roger Massey who spoke, the only one beside Gared and Artos of their company wearing black unsworn. He hadn't been near as affable as the Riverlands bastard, and had voiced every opinion he'd had since arriving not long after Artos.

"Too thin," he'd said of their cloaks. "Too small," of their quarters, "too worn," of the armor and "too young," of the Lord Commander himself. "And far too smug for a lad not yet bearded."

Massey sat jabbing at the fire with a blackened stick, prompting bursts of sparks from beneath the haphazardly stacked logs. He himself had been cleanshaven when they left, but now his chin was lined with stubble. Rhaegar scowled in his direction.

"Fire runs through my veins," he told the man. "Cold has no effect on me, no matter my place of birth."

Rivers hugged his knees to his chest and stared mournfully into the flames. "I miss the south," he said simply.

"From what I understand, the south isn't a place anyone would want to be right now," Rolf offered in consolation. "Last I heard there was a war of sorts going on down there, and a Blackfyre killed the King of Feasts. Now there's a Queen who's half dragon herself, I hear. They say she's got a spiny black tail hidden beneath the train of her gown. Queen Aelinor? Aemma?"

"Aeslyn." Rhaegar's stormy expression seemed to somehow darken further. "My cousin. She was to be Alester's bride, not some Lion's consort."

Rolf shook his head, confused. "No, a Blackfyre's king, they said."

Rhaegar snorted. "There _are_ no Blackfyres," he said. "The only Dragon this world knows is sitting across the fire from you, and a Lannister warms my throne."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the camp. No one dared exchange a glance. Rhaegar sat illuminated by the flames, the light of the fire casting dark tongues of shadow across the sharp features of his face.

"_Your _throne?" Massey repeated, ceasing his prodding of the fire.

The Lord Commander rose, red cloak spilling about his shoulders, and stood to face them.

"I'm no fool," he hissed. "I know that you hate me, Massey, that you mutter curses beneath your breath when my back is turned. You envy me, my blood, my station. But the truth is, we have more in common than you realize. I, too, am at the Wall only temporarily."

The wind howled through the snowy pines. Gared looked up at the Commander with his mouth slightly agape, but Massey met Rhaegar's cold hard stare with an angry glare of his own.

"If you think you'd make a better Lord Commander than I," Rhaegar said, his voice low and ominous, "you're welcome to put your own name forth once Danae comes for me. But when you send your raven to the capital, begging us for men and gold and supplies, know that the King will remember your bitter words, and that Dragons have their _own_. Do you know what they are, Massey? Fire and Blood."

He spun on his heel then, that handsome cloak billowing like a banner at his back, and stalked off to his tent.

Gared and Rolf sat in stunned silence and Artos glanced from them to Massey, but the glowering Crownlander took no notice of him. Roger was still staring after Rhaegar, dark eyes reflecting the orange flames of the campfire as though they were two looking glasses.

It was on that seventh night beyond the Wall that Artos realized he might not be leaving Castle Black as soon as he'd intended.

**-SARELLA-**

"You said what?"

Sarella stared at the young Targaryen as though she'd just sprouted an extra limb. For a moment, she wanted to believe she'd misheard the girl. But her solar held only three people at present, with the city still sleeping off its celebration of her marriage, no noise came from without the open windows.

Danae shrugged.

"I called him a puppet. A whoremonger, a drunk, and a fool, too," she answered from her chair, looking up at Sarella with ambivalence. "So what? It's all true."

_Idiot. I should have known. Targaryens don't bow, no more than a Martell._

"That was the King of Westeros," the Princess snapped, crossing the room to stand before the girl. Danae was dressed in one of the gowns Sarella had gifted her, a flowing piece of cream colored satin that attached at an obsidian collar. "You were supposed to seduce him, not insult him. You were supposed to become his consort, his Queen, his killer."

"His consort," Danae said with disdain plain on her comely face. "I am no consort. How many Free Cities must I conquer in order to prove that?"

"How could you be so-"

"Princess." Sarella had forgotten the Velaryon was there until he spoke. Leaning against the wall in the shadows of the solar, Varyo looked unhappy, but calm. "What's done is done. Berating the Lady Targaryen won't put any words back into her mouth."

Sarella rounded on him then, fists clenched at her sides. "If the Lady Targaryen put what she should have in her mouth, then we wouldn't be having this conversation at all! We would be making plans for a royal wedding, toasting to the glory of Dorne and the prosperity of the Seven Kingdoms, charting a course for the future of two great houses-"

"Belaboring the point won't change what has already happened." His stoicism unnerved her.

"How can you be so passionless?" she demanded. "You had more at stake than I in this. Her refusal will cost you everything, can't you see that? How can you return to King's Landing now? Your role in this Lizard Queen's fall will be discovered as soon as Loren Lannister sinks his claws into the right men. Everything you've worked for, undone in an instant because she refuses to open her legs."

Varyo's expression did not change. "Lady Danae has made her choice. We can either talk war or put the matter to rest."

"Her choice is foolish."

"It was my choice," Danae said quickly, before the argument could continue. "I have a dragon. I have an army. You do not make decisions for me, Sarella."

Sarella bristled at her words and then turned and shoved the papers off her desk in a rage. They fluttered to the floor. _All my plans, laid to waste in a single night._

"I should throw you out of Dorne," she seethed when she wheeled back around to face Danae. "I should command you to leave my kingdom."

"Fine," the girl answered. "Throw me out of Dorne. I'm not wanting for your refuge, Princess. I am not helpless."

"Get out," Sarella said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Danae rose from her chair, but the Princess closed the distance between them and placed a hand on her shoulder, forcing the Targaryen back into her seat.

"Not you," Sarella snapped. "Varyo. Get out."

The Velaryon sighed, uncrossing his arms from his chest and striding from the room quietly. He closed the door behind him, and Sarella cast her dark eyes to Danae.

"You ungrateful brat. Are you so proud that you would spurn a throne? And for what? Your contrived sense of purity?"

"I will never bed him," she answered simply. "You will never see me submit to that man."

"I didn't say you had to be on the bottom," Sarella spat. Danae's cheeks flushed red at that, but the Princess ignored it. "I'm willing to put my life and my kingdom on the line for your Queenship, but you won't even lift a finger." She looked the young Targaryen up and down before adding, "Or your skirts."

She moved to behind the desk and picked up a decanter of wine, refilling a cup left on the table.

"Marriage means nothing," she said. "It is a contract. It is a way to cement loyalties, alliances, a kingdom, a throne. I gave you your way out, that stone around your neck. You gave me a promise."

"I changed my mind," Danae said. "I won't take the throne this way."

Sarella slammed the chalice of wine down, Dornish red spilling out over the parchments that remained. She walked from behind the desk and stood in front of the Targaryen before placing each of her hands on the armrests of Danae's chair and lowering herself so that she met Danae's gaze.

"I will put you on that throne, one way or another," Sarella told her.

Danae's violet eyes betrayed nothing. _Proud young fool._ The Princess stared into those violet irises with fury.

"If you won't kill him," she promised, "I will."

**-AESLYN-**

The throne room was stuffy.

No, Aeslyn corrected herself. It was _stifling._

She hadn't seen this many people packed into the Great Hall since the feast, though instead of sitting on benches at long rows of tables, men and women crowded the gallery above, leaning over the rail with interest and murmuring amongst themselves. Some of those on the floor below were afforded seats befitting their stations on wooden stands hastily erected along the long and lonely aisle they'd escorted her down, while others stood pressed together behind the columns in the shadow of the balcony.

These were the men and women who had oh-ed and aw-ed at her presence during that feast, the ones who had complimented her gown and her hair as she strode past them as their Queen, toasted their kingdoms, presided over the sentencing of Ser Ulrich.

Now she was here for a trial of another sort entirely- her own.

_Absurd, that's what this is. Treasonous, even. _Aeslyn straightened the crown atop her head. At least they spared her irons, though an empty courtesy it was given the circumstances. Three sniveling men were to decide her innocence before the realm, her fate.

Old Laenor Velaryon sat in an unornate chair of polished oak at the foot of the towering iron one. He wore robes of pale blue mottled with white, and a seven pointed star fashioned from bronze hung around his neck from a chain.

_I will have him strung up in the gallows when Damon returns,_ she thought, glowering at him from her own stand, a lectern of polished oak rubbed with lacquer. _But not before he's gelded. Him and the rest of this sorry excuse for a panel._

She knew only one of the faces of the men seated on either side of the so-called Lord Spiritual. The High Septon she'd recognize for his girth alone, even if she hadn't ever made his acquaintance. Aeslyn had seen the fat, slimy man lead services at the Great Sept only once or twice, since Damon would never allow himself to be dragged down there and she hated doing anything alone.

The other was some commoner, a lowly kitchen scallion dredged up from the castle and made to represent "the people."

_Absurd. As if anybody could judge a Queen._

The buzzing in the throne room was as obnoxious as the heat. A guard had to slam the butt of his spear against the stone floors to bring silence once she reached the stand, and somehow Aeslyn doubted that the whisperings in the audience were of her dress or hair, though both looked stunning.

"Queen Aeslyn of House Targaryen," the Lord Spiritual began once the din had died down. "You stand accused of high treason, fornication outside the sacred bonds of marriage, and conspiracy to commit acts of extramarital lewdness. How do you plead?"

"Innocent," she declared evenly. The guards banged their spears again as a murmur swept through the crowd. She could not make out their words, the whispers were like wind in the rushes.

"The throne calls its first witness," Laenor said, his voice echoing in the vastness of the hall once quiet had settled. Aeslyn did not turn to see the summoned approach. Instead, she held her chin up, staring at nothing in particular but making sure her gaze was aimed down her nose when the Velaryon gave his question.

"Who comes to bear witness before the throne?" he asked.

"Nella," spoke a timid voice in a thick accent. "A serving girl, m'lord."

Aeslyn stole a glance from the corner of her eye and saw a child dressed in a plain cotton shift, olive skinned and dark of hair, standing in the little box at the the foot of the dais.

"Nella," Laenor said, "are you aware of the charges brought against the Queen?"

"Yes, m'lord."

If Aeslyn had to guess, she'd put the girl at twelve years or younger. She could not remember having ever seen her before, and narrowed her eyes suspiciously at the child.

"What do you know about these accusations?" the Lord Spiritual asked, and the child cleared her throat.

"M'lord," she began, "I am a servant of the Red Keep. I was emptying the chamberpot of one of the minor lords, m'lord, and the balcony door was open. I heard... I heard moaning and shouting, m'lord. When I went to the balcony, I was able to look down and I saw the Queen, your Lord Spiritual... She was... She was leaning against the rail of one of the other balconies, and a man was... He was…"

"Go on…" Laenor said gently.

"He was mounting her from behind, m'lords, as the dogs in the kennel house do. He was mounting her and she was shoutin' and moanin' something loud, like she was enjoying it m'lord."

_Absurd,_ Aeslyn thought, but there were gasps and whispers amongst the crowd, and the High Septon leaned forward in his seat and licked his lips.

"Young girl..." Laenor said gently, as though speaking to a horse that might startle, "Did you see who this man was?"

"Y-Yes, m'lord. He was that man. That man who the Dornishman killed in the trial. The Maidensblood."

The revelation brought an uproar, and set Aeslyn's cheeks to burning. _Lies_, she knew. She'd never lain with the Maidensblood. She'd never laid eyes on him until that day the younger Dayne was brought to trial. _Who benefits from this?_ she wondered. _Who stands to gain the most from dragging my name through the mud? Is it some jealous woman? A hateful lord? Thaddius?_

She did not look at Aeslyn once when she stepped down from the stand, escorted by two of the castle guards in red cloaks and black chainmail. The next person they brought forward was even filthier than the child, with wiry black hair and skinny legs that went on for leagues beneath her ratty skirt.

_They could have at least washed the witnesses, _Aeslyn thought, resisting the urge to pinch her nose. The box for those testifying was some distance from her own stand, but it was close enough that when the woman sneered in her direction she could make out each of her stained teeth.

She looked right at Aeslyn when she answered the Lord Spiritual's questions.

"Tansy," she said. "And aye, I know all 'bout these accusations against our Queen. I saw her fuckin' the Maidensblood meself, in the kitchens, when all else had gone to bed. I snuck down to filch a bit o' bread, m'lords, yes I admit it!"

She wheeled around to glare at the audience at that point, who eyed her with a distaste not different from Aeslyn's. "As if you wouldn't do the same to feed your own screaming whelps!"

The creature ignored the murmuring of the crowd and turned back around to face the Lord Spiritual.

"The Queen, the dragon bitch, she was flat on her back on the great big table where they cut all the vegetables, nude as her nameday, her naked tits bouncing as that filthy Tyroshi whore-mongerer fucked her silly."

She looked at Aeslyn and smiled. "Surprised half the castle didn't wake, what with her screamin' and carryin' on like that. I knew she would cut my throat and feed me and mine to her black dragon if she saw me, so I hid behind the clam barrel until they was done. I watched him spill his seed in her pink little cunny. I wouldn't be half surprised if that puny little lizard inside her came out with a great red beard and blue hair!"

Aeslyn's face had turned redder than the Targaryen banners that hung behind the throne alongside the Lannister lion. Such sordid candor. Such _profanity_. She hadn't heard so many filthy words from one mouth since she made the mistake of accompanying Danae to the Gullet one sunny day.

Fishermen's sons, merchants' daughters, and peasant children of Massey's Hook all splashed in the briny water, trading tall tales and bawdy songs. They swore like their sailor parents, but none so profusely as Aeslyn's own sister.

"Quiet!" Laenor called helplessly over the din in the Throne Room. "Silence!"

The woman called Tansy left the stand with a swagger and a smirk as the crowd continued the commotion. Women shook their heads and men stared at Aeslyn before lifting their hands to shield their whispers from her eyes.

"Painted whore!" The witness spat at the floor as she passed Aeslyn. The guards seized her roughly then, and she thrashed like a rabid dog against their grip the whole way down the long aisle, directing her obscenities at the audience, her escorts, the Queen and even the gods themselves.

_There won't be a spike for that one,_ Aeslyn decided. _I want her flayed and left to the crows._

Her own outrage was waning as the ache in her back grew. They had provided no chair, despite how plainly she was with child, and her legs were becoming weary. The third witness was a leaning old man with a limp, who took a lifetime to hobble to the stand.

Aeslyn did not catch his name over the slamming of the spears against the ground and the continued mutterings of the crowd, but the whispered died down in time for her to hear that he'd been serving the castle since King Harys' grandfather sat the throne.

"I saw it m'lord, just when it started," he explained to the three judges. "I was just wandering the halls, doing my usual duty when I ran into them. Wasn't a month after His Grace took the throne, and I had a lot of extra work to do everywhere, all the changes, m'lord. So I'm turning the corner, I was, and there I came across it, that Maidensblood fellow and the Dragon Queen attacking each other's faces like cats in heat, see."

_How can he stand there before the throne and lie through what few teeth he has left. _If looks could kill, the old man would have met an end still far less painful than the one he deserved.

"He was going after her," he said, "tearing at her clothes and grabbing at her tits, right in the middle of the hallway. She shushed him right up quickly, and the two of them rushed into the nearest bedroom, see. Took a few minutes, but before long I heard her screaming something awful loud, not in pain, m'lord, if you'll excuse me I know the sound of pain and the sound of pleasure, just ask m'wife. The Dragon was enjoying it, m'lord. Sounded like she was getting the fucking of a lifetime, I wouldn't be surprised if I wasn't the only one that heard it, she was so loud."

He paused to catch his breath, a combination of the memory and the talking seemed to have rendered him beet red in the face. The High Septon turned his beady eyes to Aeslyn, and wiped at his forehead with a fine lace kerchief.

_He would break the gallows, _Aeslyn knew. _It will have to be the headsman for him. Clarent Payne has a strong sword arm. When my husband gives the order, he will do it in one clean stroke._

"Next morning," the old man went on, "I decided to take on a few duties I hadn't done in awhile and personally go around cleaning up the keep. Wasn't my first stop, it's a big castle to look after, but when I was there, m'lord, you wouldn't believe it. They'd been gone obviously for awhile, and they'd already tried to hide the last night but you can't hide everything from me, m'lord, I has a good eye for this stuff, I do. Seen more'n my fair share of Lords and Ladies trying to fuck secretly to have the wool pulled over my eyes."

The kitchen lad, the "people's judge," hadn't said a word the whole time, and continued to stare at his lap. But the High Septon tucked his kerchief into the folds of his satin robes and frowned.

"What did you discover?" he asked, and the old man nodded, as though he'd expected the question.

"Hidden under a bed, I found some ruined small clothes, but theres more, too, m'lord. The sheets weren't quite dry, m'lord. Not blood or anything, but bodily fluids of a different nature. Seems to me like the two of them musta gone all through the night and some of the morning, too. Later that day I was going about my business as usual, trying to decide who to tell, when I saw the queen 'erself. I didn't tell 'er nuthing about how I knew, m'lord, but I promise by my own two eyes, an I've been with the castle for awhile and never told a Lord a lie, see, she wasn't walking quite straight. Looked like that Maidensblood fellow had fucked her balance right out from 'er, I say."

There were raised eyebrows at that, and more murmuring.

"Lord Spiritual," Aeslyn interrupted, her fists clenching at her sides. "When will the Queen be allowed to present her witnesses?"

"Now, now," the High Septon shifted in his seat. "Let the man finish his story, these details are crucial in the rendering of our verdict."

"Silence!" Laenor ordered, directing the command at the audience. He threw a glare up toward the gallery, and the men and women leaning over the rail straightened and lapsed into a reluctant silence. "She makes a point," he said, turning back to the High Septon. "Three witnesses have spoken for the crown. Let one of Queen Aeslyn's come forward. Does that suit you, Your Holiness?"

The High Septon sighed with disappointment, but motioned for the guards to lead the old man away.

"And you, Owen?"

The peasant was pale faced, and glanced about the room nervously as though he half expected a crossbow bolt. He nodded weakly at the question. The room filled with chatter once the witness was led away, and for the first time that she could remember, Aeslyn loathed all the eyes on her.

_I will remember your faces,_ she thought, glaring about the room. _All of you who laughed, all of you whispering. There are spikes enough for all your heads. When Damon comes home-_

She turned at the sound of the doors groaning as they opened, and felt her heart leap into her throat at the sight of Robert Manderly being into the Throne Room. For a moment she imagined him in irons, and shuddered inwardly at the vision.

He made the walk in somber silence, and looked at her only briefly when he reached the box beside her own. Aeslyn tried to read his face in vain.

"Commander Robert," the Lord Spiritual greeted him. "Queen Aeslyn of House Targaryen has called you to defend her innocence against the accusations before her. Do you know these accusations?"

He looked at her when he answered. "I do."

She met his gaze unwaveringly.

"And can you in good faith attest to the judges before you, in the sight of gods and the good men of Westeros, that the Queen is innocent of the charges laid before her?"

Silence.

His eyes bored into her own, dark as night, hard as stone.

"I can."

**-TRYSTANE-**

"Almost," he whispered to nobody, twisting the dagger ever so slightly. "Almost there… A little more…"

The lock clicked, the knob turned, and then the door swung open on its hinges with a protesting creak that made Trystane Sand wince.

The maester's tower of the Old Palace was a squat hovel of red clay walls and a flat square roof, an unsightly blemish tucked away between the intimidating Spear Tower and the windows of many colored glass that circled the Tower of the Sun. It was a place few cared to venture, an ugly place that most were often happy to ignore.

But Trystane was not most people.

The bastard of House Martell shoved the silver dagger back into the folds of his worn brown robe and peeked his head around the doorway to see if the room was empty. His mop of shaggy black hair fell across his eyes and he brushed the locks away in annoyance.

_All clear._

Dust rose in a cloud and settled as he crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him. Old Joss was behind on his cleaning, that much was clear.

Ancient journals and tomes were stacked in the corners, nearly as tall as his head. Trystane remembered standing before them as a child when the room was much less forsaken, staring up at them with wonder, plucking one from the stack and stealing away to the pomegranate grove outside the castle walls before the elderly maester could catch him.

Papers littered every surface of the unused desk. There were letters sent to the Princess of Dorne and replies halfway composed in Maester Joss' practiced yet shaky hand. But it wasn't the letters or the secrets they contained that held Trystane's interest.

His eyes were drawn immediately to the dust covered cabinet in the corner and he tiptoed over the worn rugs, muttering a swear when he accidentally kicked a glass vial lying open on the floor with the toe of his boot. It shattered against the wall and he paused, frozen as still as a statue, and listened for the impending footfalls making their way down the hallway to investigate.

But no one came.

Trystane pulled open the cabinet doors and ran his fingers over the labels on the vials inside, stopping every now and then to slip one of the bottles into his deep pockets.

_Smokeberry, waspwillow, tansy, greycap, firepods, spiceflower..._

That was Myriah's favorite, and the thought of her set his chest to aching. He hadn't seen her since this morning, when she'd sent him away.

"Not here," she'd scolded teasingly, grinning coyly at him from the gap in her half opened bedchamber door. "Not in the palace. Everyone is here for the wedding, my husband-"

"-is with one of the Daynes," Trystane finished, pushing the door open. "He won't be missing you."

They'd been quick about it, still. Myriah whispered her words of passion hurriedly, back pressed against the door, skirts hiked up past her waist, and afterwards she'd thrown him out before he could even properly finish buttoning his pants.

He plucked a few sprigs of the dried spiceflower from the maester's bowl and stuffed them into the satchel over his shoulder. Myriah would be pleased, he knew. She would probably-

"Trystane? Is that you?"

Trystane whirled around, one hand in his bag and the other clutching a vial of poppy.

"Martyn. Prince Martyn, I meant." He stood there for a moment quite awkwardly, staring at his sister's betrothed. The lordling was dressed finely in yellow silk, his silver hair worn long down his back like his brother's. They were alike in many ways, Ulrich and Martyn, but the younger was shorter, more slender, with a boyish face instead of the chiseled one his elder had.

"Martyn is fine," the Dayne said with a warm smile. "We're brothers now. What are you doing here?" He raised an eyebrow curiously, but there was no judgement in his gaze. Trystane kept his eyes locked on the Dayne's, and slowly uncorked the vial with his thumb.

"Just… checking on things," he said.

"Did you come with the Jordaynes for the wedding?"

"Ah… No, I, that is, yes. I did. As their… their…"

"All of Dorne knows that Myriah keeps you as a paramour, Trysane. It's our kingdom's worst kept secret, and it has been since our days at the Water Gardens." Martyn shook his head with a smile. "I don't know why the two of you play some game at hiding. This is Dorne. We don't look down on bastards, and a noble lady is free to take on a paramour if she so wishes. Love is a beautiful thing, brother. Our blood runs hot in this kingdom, and the Dornish have never seen fit to confine our passions to only one person for all- what are you doing?"

Trystane froze, the vial of poppy at his lips. He lowered it sheepishly. "I was just, ah… tasting it. For research purposes. To make sure it was still good." He lowered the glass and smiled weakly. "Yes, still good. I will be sure to let Maester Joss know." He hastily recorked the bottle, and slipped it into his pouch.

Martyn frowned. "Are you taking it to him?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm taking it to him."

_Shit. Say something to change the subject._

"Do you come here often?" Trystane swallowed. He could taste the poppy on his tongue, the delicious drop he'd stolen.

"To the maester's storeroom? No. I'm still learning this palace. I heard something break…"

"I'm happy my sister chose you," Trystane said quickly. "You're a better man than I am, Prince Martyn. I don't see how you suffer Ulrich's presence at Sarella's side after they've spent so many nights together, but if you can can do _that_, then surely I can find the strength to withstand Myriah's husband at the Tor, secret or not."

_The spiceflower will help, too, of course…_

Martyn was staring at him with a confused sort of look on his face.

"Ulrich?" he asked.

"Strange," Trystane said, feeling for the cabinet behind him and the remaining herbs left inside. "I wouldn't think him to be the type to lower himself to bodyguard work, but I suppose if it means being closer to her-"

"_Ulrich?"_ Martyn asked again, and the warmness was gone from his face and voice.

_Shit._

Trystane grabbed a handful of Pinchfire and stuffed it in his bag. "I should go," he said. He accidentally knocked the bowl from the shelf as he turned to leave, and the dried flowers ended up scattered across the floor, then crunched beneath his boots as he hurried to make his exit. "Maester Joss will need to know about the poppy, yes, but I will tell him myself, no need for you to worry-"

"Ulrich?" Martyn caught him by the arm as Trystane tried to pass by him. "Sarella," he said, "And Ulrich?"

"I really should be going." Trystane wrenched free and left the chamber as quickly as his feet could take him. He waited to release his breath until he was halfway down the tower stairs, wiping the sweat that had formed on his brow and exhaling deeply.

_That was a close one._

**\- AESLYN -**

_Peasants. Fools._ Aeslyn had always thought the guards at the Red Keep to be sour, but the looks they wore when they escorted her back to the Maidenvault after the first day of her trial were acidic. _They forget that I am their master, their Queen._

When the door to her chambers was slammed shut behind them, she glowered at it from within, arms folded across her chest, huffing. She should have been in her _own_ rooms, in the royal apartments with all her luxuries. The silks, the satins, the gold enameled comb with the rubies on the handle, the familiar paintings she loved to admire while soaking in her great copper tub...

She missed the twin hearths with roaring fires she would warm herself by while her handmaidens braided her hair. She missed the view from the window seat in the sitting room where she would gaze out over the city as she waited for Damon to return, sometimes for hours.

More often than not she would fall asleep there, her cheek against a tasseled satin pillow, only to wake and find he'd come and gone without rousing her, the only evidence of his visit a door to a wardrobe left open, or an emptied carafe of wine, or the mussed sheets in their bed. Once she woke to find him still napping, and crept into their bed silent as a cat. She stroked his hair and hummed to him softly, and for a few beautiful moments felt like his wife and not some intruder into his life.

But then he called her "mother" in his sleep and after the argument that followed she never caught him napping in their chambers again. She didn't know where Damon went to rest. Perhaps the Maidenvault.

As Aeslyn thought of the things she missed, the furs and the necklaces, the feather pillows and the plush rugs, her handmaidens and her husband, the weight of it all seemed to settle on her at once, and suddenly she could scarcely breathe. With one hand over her swollen belly and the other pressed to her temple, she found her way to the bed.

It didn't take long for the tears to well in her eyes, and soon she was sobbing on the hard mattress, curled into as tight a ball as she could make, shaking and trembling.

_They'll pay, all of them will, _she thought. _Everyone who has ever wronged me. The High Septon, the Lord Spiritual, Thaddius, Danae…_

Danae.

Aeslyn felt the tears subside as her hands clenched into fists. _Yes, that's who is behind this all, the trial, the false accusations- Danae! That conniving, sneaking, scheming harlot…_ She could feel her own fingernails digging into her palms. _I should've known. She thinks she's so clever, thinks she can take what rightfully belongs to me._

It was all just like that time they'd fought over the fish merchant's son. He had been a freckle faced boy with hair as orange as a carrot, and during the long summer of their childhood Aeslyn had loved him fiercely. She would spend her days waiting for him at the docks whenever his father came to trade at Sharp Point.

He had left a note in the stables once, asking his "silver haired Jonquil" to meet him in the clearing where the wild lavender was beginning to bloom, "as purple as your eyes," he'd written. She raced to the meadow as fast as her legs would carry her, only to find Danae there already, in her mud stained riding clothes. He was tucking a flower behind her ear and she watched as Ethan bent to kiss her younger sister.

_She did it on purpose, _Aeslyn knew. _She stole him from me. She thinks she can steal my crown now, too, she thinks she-_

The knock on the door brought her from her bleary eyed stupor, and she lifted her tear streaked face from the pillow and sniffled.

"Who's there?" she called, but silence was the reply. Aeslyn was about to resume her angry crying when the knock came again, this time more urgent. She rose from the bed with some difficulty, the ache in her head now matching the ache in her back.

There were no soft carpets in the Maidenvault, no Myrish treasures to pad her feet as she crossed the room to open the door.

"If you've come to bring me food, it best be cooked _properly_ unlike last-" She paused midway through opening the door, and blinked in confusion at the man on the other side before her senses returned with a scowl.

"Daelys, what are you doing here?!" she hissed, closing the door carefully behind him after the knight slipped quickly into the room. "If we're seen speaking before you testify for me on the morrow, people will suspect that-"

"There won't _be_ any testimony tomorrow, Your Grace," Daelys said, whirling around to face her. He looked frazzled, his silvery hair tied back behind his head instead of worn down about his shoulders as it usually was, and the worry on his face bordered panic. "Don't you see?" he asked. "Don't you get it? They don't care what your witnesses have to say. The verdict has already been determined."

Aeslyn's face contorted into a frown. "What are you talking about, Daelys?"

"The trial, the testimony, all of it. Those castle servants and their lies. Did it never occur to you that Lord Rymar Royce _knows_ about Commander Robert?"

Aeslyn narrowed her eyes. "I have no idea what you speak of, Ser Daelys. Robert Manderly is a _friend_ and a _loyal_ servant to the King." _Fool, these walls have ears, doesn't he know that?_

It seemed that he didn't.

"And your lover," Daelys said. "Yet they did not name him, they chose this sellsword, and invented these stories. You were never with Robert in the kitchens, you were never with him on a balcony, you never-"

"Hold your tongue, _Ser_," Aeslyn warned, seething.

The knight met her puffy eyes with an unwavering gaze. "Guilty, Your Grace," he said quietly. "They mean to declare you guilty, and there is something greater than the both of us at work here that we cannot stop."

"But… But they can't! I am the _Queen!" _She stomped her foot and the tears welled up once again, making the image of the knight in white plate blur.

Unfair. It was all so unfair. Why didn't anybody understand?

"We have to get you out of here," Daelys said with conviction. He placed a hand on her arm gently. "There isn't much time."

"This is my home!" Aeslyn protested, shrugging off his hand. "Where else would I go? Where else do I belong? This is where my husband is, where my _family_ is, where-"

"They will _kill_ you, Aeslyn," Daelys interrupted, his voice now holding an edge she'd never heard before. "They will kill you and your child both, and if you think that any Lannister in this castle would lose a night of sleep over it then I hate to be one to correct a queen but _you are wrong._"

Aeslyn felt a nagging in her stomach that she could not attribute to pregnancy. "Guilty…" she whispered.

"Please." Daelys dropped slowly to his knees, and took her hand in his. "I swore a vow," he told her, violet eyes gazing up into her own. "To serve you. To _protect_ you. I am a man of honor. Don't make me break that vow, not to my Queen."

Aeslyn stared down at him. "Is Damon waiting for me? Is that where you're taking me? Is he saving me?" Her pulse raced at the thought of her husband returning to the Red Keep to save her from Danae's wicked schemes.

Daelys looked at her for a long time, kneeling there on the ground. She searched his eyes eagerly for some answer, for hope, for some indication that all was not truly as lost as his words were making it seem.

"Yes," he promised at last. "Damon is waiting at the docks with a ship to take you both away from this place. Now _please,_ my Queen, let us _go."_

For the first time since her confinement, the first time since she'd been dragged away to these aging quarters, this forgotten wing, Aeslyn smiled. A real, genuine smile.

"Good," she said, sighing out loud in relief. "Let us go."

**-DAMON-**

"Your Grace?"

Damon could not tell if the pounding was coming from the door or his own head, but it was deafening, and he fumbled for a pillow to pull over his ears. The bed was feather soft, the thin satin sheets were cool. They both called him back to sleep, but it seemed that the person on the other side of the door had different plans in mind.

"Your Grace?"

The knocking persisted. Damon groaned.

_I will outlaw knocking, _he decided, lying there facedown on the mattress. _That's what I'll do. As soon as I'm back in King's Landing I'll convene the Small Council and pass an ordinance declaring that all men must-_

The door opened with a soft click, and the sound of heavy armored footsteps added to the ache in Damon's head. As they drew nearer and nearer to the bed, his heart sank further and further.

"Your Grace?" a gentle voice asked. _Ser Danny,_ Damon realized. "Your Grace, are you… Are you alive?" There was silence, and then muttering. "Oh, Seven Hells, he can't answer me if he isn't..."

Damon raised a hand weakly, then let it fall back to the mattress. He could hear the Kingsguard sigh in relief.

"There's a letter for you, Your Grace," the bastard Knight said, "from the capital. It seemed important."

Damon shoved the pillow from his head and rolled onto his side, blinking up at the kingsguard in groggy confusion. Danny stood there in his fine white armor, clutching a rolled sheet of parchment. He held it out to the King and Damon took it and pulled it into the bed beside him.

He recognized the sigil on the seal, but wasn't moved by the lion embossed in red wax. The last such letter he'd received came only yesterday, and detailed his wife's betrayal and impending trial. He doubted that this one contained any news he'd be happy to hear.

"We are supposed to depart in an hour, Your Grace," the knight reminded him. "Best to set out before the sun gets too high."

Damon had almost forgotten. It would have been easy to get onboard a ship and sail back to King's Landing, but since when did anyone ever allow him to do anything _easy?_ No, Rymar had insisted he make his way home by horse.

"Tour the kingdom. Let the Dornish meet you," he'd said. "A King should be seen."

_I _was _seen by the Dornish,_ Damon thought, _at the wedding feast. But let Father watch me play the diplomat. Then he'll see just how well a Lion can rule._

"We'll depart when I decide we depart," Damon replied, forcing himself up with some difficulty. "I'm the King. Don't I at least get that much?"

"I… I suppose that-"

"Good. I'll call for you when I'm ready." His head throbbed. There was a glass of water on the table by the bed, and he thanked the gods for small favors, drinking as the White Cloak took his leave. But no sooner had the door shut behind Ser Danny than a sudden rush of nausea overcame him, and Damon left the cup and staggered from the bed to the privy, barely making it in time. He spent the better part of the morning in there on his knees, retching and vomiting.

He did not recall having so much to drink, but then again he did not recall much of anything from the previous night. Holding onto the commode with a desperate strength, memories of the wedding came to him slowly. The Princess, smiling and laughing, Ulrich, drowning himself in wine by the end of the night, the young Targaryen girl in that red dress, the heat, the stifling heat and the dancing and the scent of roasted spicy snake…

He vomited some more, and once it seemed like there was nothing left within him, Damon stumbled to the bath only to find it cold. He didn't mind. He was sweating.

He dried his messy blonde hair with a towel as he returned to the bedchamber and the letter he'd abandoned there, bent and wrinkled. His headache felt no better. When he broke the seal and read, it seemed as though someone were pounding on the door to his very skull.

_...Ser Thaddius Lannister, riding with ten men in pursuit of bandits purported to be preying on passerby... attacked by sigiless archers on the Kingsroad… eleven bodies found burned… the Lord Commander believed dead…_

Damon read the letter once while standing, then sat down on the edge of the bed to read it again.

_...Ser Thaddius Lannister… dead._

He felt vulnerable in his nakedness, and numbly pulled the sheets to him. As he read it a third time, the words began to swim and the parchment shook, and Damon was confused until he realized that it was his own hands trembling and his own tears blurring his vision.

He gave his farewell to the Princess and her husband, dry eyed and politely. The Lord Dayne seemed rather stiff and stone faced, but Sarella smiled cordially and kissed his cheek. Martyn seemed to flinch at that, but perhaps Damon was imagining things.

They went to Planky Town first, and the consequences of their late departure were felt immediately. The sun was unbearably hot, and the sand was scorching. The combination of the heat, grief and excessive drink meant that it was all Damon could do to keep from falling from the saddle.

Twice they stopped for him to empty his stomach beside the road, wasting what little water he'd managed to swallow.

By the time they arrived at the manse of Prince Moreo Martell, some uncle or cousin or uncle-cousin to the Princess, Damon felt so weak and hungry that even the grilled snake seemed appealing, though after Moreo announced that its fiery sauce of mustard seeds and dragon peppers contained a drop of actual snake venom, he took the flatbread instead.

He did not sleep that night, for all his exhaustion. When he closed his eyes Damon saw eleven burned bodies on the Kingsroad, and his stomach twisted into knots.

From Planky Town to Godsgrace, then across the Greenblood to Red Dunes and Salt Shore, he traveled with his men. Houses Allyrion and Vaith, Gargalen and Dalt, rode to meet them in Planky Town, then Uller at Hellholt (a tolerable part of the journey, as they stuck close to the coast) hosted the knights and various tag along free riders.

Damon met with the Dornish lords, spoke with them, laughed with them, drank with them, ate more reptile in a few days than he had hoped to eat in a lifetime, and then mounted up each morning to sit and sweat on a saddle beneath that awful, glaring sun.

The ride to Sandstone was what he dreaded most- nothing but endless dunes, boiling hot sand, and a sun in a cloudless sky. Many of the free riders chose to leave then in favor of Yronwood, and their company dwindled down to a hundred split between two parties, one led by Piper, the other by Flowers.

Damon was with the bastard, but his thoughts were in Casterly Rock.

Thaddius had been thirteen when he came to Damon with his first proclamation of love. He'd written it down and brought it to the training yard that morning before they were set to practice with Ser Tywin. Damon had been sitting with his back against the low stone wall of the sparring ring, a sword across his lap and a helm over his head so that no one could tell he was sleeping.

Thaddius sat down beside him and knocked on the steel to wake him. "I want to send this," he'd said, opening the visor and thrusting the letter into Damon's line of sight.

The message was to their cousin Gwin, and filled with stolen poetry and vows of undying affection. "Do you think Father would let us wed?" he'd asked.

"No," Damon had replied, closing the visor.

Thaddius was stubborn, opening it once more. "I mean it, Damon. I love her. I want to spend the rest of my life with her. I would do anything to make it happen."

"Gwin can't even read." Damon closed the visor again, but this time Thaddius lifted the helm off completely, and tossed it aside.

"You're my brother. You have to help me. Family is _everything_. Haven't you ever felt this way about a girl? What about that whore Father forbid you from ever seeing again? I know you still visit her, I'm not stupid, I saw-"

"She isn't a _whore_," he'd snapped, yanking the parchment from Thaddius' hands and climbing to his feet, throwing the blade to the ground. Damon remembered how he'd held the letter up as he launched into his diatribe. "You don't know anything, Thad! You're just a stupid boy who's very good at hitting things with a sword! That doesn't make you special, or better, or more _worthy-_"

Ser Tywin appeared seemingly from nowhere at that moment, and snatched the letter from his hand. Loren had been livid when he learned of it. "You will never set foot on Pyke again," he'd promised Damon. "And if you attempt to write your cousin, I will make sure you spend your days across the Narrow Sea, trying to remember what it was like to not have sand in your mouth."

Thad came to him at the port, where he could always find Damon after a whipping, throwing stones into the the water at the bottom of the Rock where great ships came to dock.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You could've told Father it was me."

"He'd never believe that." Damon remembered hurling a stone at the side of a galley with all his strength, imagining his father's face on the hull. He was never any good at apologies, but Thaddius always said he was sorry. It was one of many things his little brother was better than him at.

And now he was dead.

Damon was lost in the memory, Casterly Rock's port as clear in his mind as it was that day, his father's belt marks on his back, his brother's voice in his ear, when the men appeared on the horizon.

Heat radiated off the sand, causing the sight of the mounted soldiers to wobble like a mirage. Flowers raised a hand, bidding them all to stop, and Damon took the halting as a chance to wipe the sweat from his brow. One of the lords had gifted him riding clothes more fitting for the Dornish climate, but there was no making _himself _more suited for it and he was sure he looked a fool with this yellow rag wrapped about his head.

"Ser Danny," he said, pulling at the cloth and nodding to the approaching strangers in the distance. "Go scout ahead."

He had an uneasy feeling in his gut as the man spurred his mount and galloped off, though it was hard to tell if it weren't just a result of all the wine at Uller's feast. Regardless, his horse seemed to share the sentiment, and dug its hooves into the sand impatiently.

He watched as the men on the horizon came into plainer view, and the sinking feeling in his stomach worsened. They were armed, and fifty… no, a hundred? Worst of all, they carried banners. _A slight correction_, Damon noted as he squinted across the dunes, _bright yellow banners emblazoned with a black stag, raised high above their ranks._

Danny was still forty feet or so from their line when the spear was loosed. Meticulously aimed, it caught the knight in the throat, and he slipped from his saddle and hit the sand with a thud. There was a moment of silence, as the Kingsguard's horse realized its lack of rider and paused, hooves sinking as they searched for a foothold in the dunes.

Then, the soldiers on the horizon charged.

Damon looked to his left. He looked to his right. He looked behind him, for someone to take up command, but all the knights stared back at him with the same expectant look on their faces he had.

_Well, this isn't ideal,_ he thought, drawing his sword. He was struggling to think of an appropriate rallying cry for the defensive side of a battle, but it wasn't a position Damon was familiar with. "Let's not die" did not seem particularly motivating, and he was racking his brain for an alternative when the second group of soldiers appeared on the edge of his field of vision. Was that east? West?

These ones came charging over the dunes with spears leveled, purple capes billowing out behind- _Purple capes. Dayne._

"Oh… Fuck."

It was not a good rallying cry at all.

The Baratheon soldiers would reach them first. Damon realized he'd never fought someone wielding a spear before. _It can't be too different from jousting._ The thought was meant to console himself, until he remembered that he was a terrible jouster.

The Storm knights shattered their line in a whirlwind of steel and blood. Within seconds, men were in the sand, and Damon would have been one of them had he ducked a split second later than he did, dodging the spearpoint but nearly losing his balance in the saddle.

He was hardly upright once more before another man charged, this one coming for his sand steed's exposed flank. He grabbed the reins in his left hand and yanked, but his horse's hooves slid in the sand and he was unable to maneuver out of the way fast enough to avoid the bite of the spear point as it grazed his side. He didn't have time to dwell on the pain, someone on his right was trying to kill him.

Damon swung his sword at the attacker. His strokes felt clumsy against the long wooden pole, but when one found the wielder's wrist he severed the man's hand from his arm and was able to drive the swordpoint through the stranger's neck.

"Damon!"

Blood splattered his own arm and his armor, and a knight in red at his right took a spear thrust meant for him.

"_Damon!"_

The voice was familiar, but it took Damon a moment to place it. He spun in the saddle and through the bloody chaos of the dunes saw him, charging through the carnage on a black sand steed, armor black, cloak black, but naked steel glinting silver like his hair.

_Ulrich. Son of a-_

"Damon, look out!"

The warning came from the Dayne, and though Damon found that puzzling he had little time to think about it before the world flipped upside down. A Dornishman's shield caught him in the shoulder and would have sent him sprawling in the dunes had his foot not gotten stuck in the stirrup. Damon saw sun and sky for a few painful moments until his boot came free, and then he tasted sand.

From the ground, the fighting was even harder to follow. Men in purple clashed with men in yellow who clashed with men in red. When Damon struggled to his feet, he fell right back down trying to avoid a riderless horse charging past. The sand was deep and his boots sank in the soft, now bloody dunes.

He managed to raise his sword in time to parry the attack of Baratheon cavalryman, and sent another careening to the ground when he opened up his horse's side, but the one that came from behind would have driven his steel through his back and ended his life there in the desert wasteland of Dorne had Ulrich not come swooping in, swinging his blade and slicing the spear in two.

"Down, fool!" he cried, and Damon glanced about frantically for the incoming challenger before the Sword of the Morning clarified. "No, _you!"_ Ulrich shouted, turning his horse around deftly before charging toward him. He had his steel lifted high above his head, the blade sparkling in the unbearable sun, hatred burning in his violet eyes.

Damon gripped his sword with both hands, bracing himself.

_If this smirking prick is the one to kill me at least let it be said I put up a fight._

"Do you mean to add Kingslayer to your titles today, Dayne?!" he called. "I won't take your sword as easily as your Princess!"

"I see no kings here!" Ulrich spun his blade with an entirely unnecessary and dramatic flourish. "And I would wager you put up less of a fight!"

He spurred his horse and charged, but just as Ulrich came within striking distance, he tilted the blade back, bringing the hilt first, and the beautiful pommel of a castle forged sword barreling toward him was the last thing Damon saw before all the world went black.


End file.
